Dream Sequence
by rose0jam
Summary: Your name is Gwendolyn Goode. You're a bright Hufflepuff with a knack for potions, and this is the story of how an understanding and trust between yourself and Professor Severus Snape slowly evolves over the years into mentorship, friendship, and eventual romance.
1. Chapter 1 - Flowers

Notes: This is the first chapter of what will eventually be a much longer Snape x Reader/OC fic. Dream Sequence is a muli-part Snape/Original Female Character fiction, told in the 2nd person, which also sort of makes it a Snape/Reader fiction. To read more about Dream Sequence, please check out "rose0jam" on tumblr. Un-betaed because I'm afraid to let anyone I know read this. Oh god here we go.

Your name is Gwendolyn Goode. You've been at Hogwarts for a grand total of two weeks, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world. Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; growing up in a muggle home, it would have been impossible _not_ to be completely enamored by the allure of floating candles, the quaintness of owl post, or the sophistication of using inkwells and quills. But much to your dismay, it also quickly became clear how completely impractical all that garbage was turning out to be. You were quite certain you were developing tension headaches from the eye strain caused by the lack of proper lighting basically everywhere in the castle. Owl post was only truly convenient if you, you know, _owned an owl_, and didn't have to wait for days for a school owl to become available. And inkwells…

It was a stupid inkwell that started this downward spiral into the wizarding world of contempt. Your fellow Hufflepuff's had assured you that there were special charms that could prevent inkpots from breaking or leaking, but that didn't really help you because you didn't _know_ any of them yet! It hadn't even crossed you or your mothers mind to purchase the more expensive self-filling quills or shatter proof inkwells at the start of term. There was already so much to buy that cutting corners on writing implements seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. How naïve you both had been.

A mere two weeks into your first year at Hogwarts, and you found yourself staring into a pitch black void at the bottom of your messenger bag, the result of your bargain bin inkwell shattering and bleeding its eldritch contents into every piece of parchment it could gorge itself upon. The planner where you kept track of all of your assignments? Ruined. Your Transfiguration and Charms textbooks? Deceased. Your very first Potions essay that was due on Monday? Utterly obliterated.

Well, okay. Maybe it wasn't as bleak as all that. A prefect had come to your rescue, and she was at least able to salvage your text books and your bag through some extensive and delicate blotting charms, though everything sported deep grey stains that would never fully fade. The Potions essay _was_ a total loss however, and the older student encouraged you to attempt to re-write it before it was due, if you valued your life. Which was totally reassuring and definitely not alarming whatsoever. Though the current Potions Master had only been under Hogwarts employ for two years, he'd already developed a reputation for being an utter horror. And though you absolutely refused to be intimidated by _anyone_, you'd convinced yourself that re-writing the essay was purely for the benefit of your grades, and not to save your own hide from your churlish professor.

There was still the issue of the damn inkwells though, and you decided it was time for some good old fashioned muggle ingenuity. You had done just fine using real pens your entire life. Why had you been suckered into doing things the old fashioned way in the first place? Social pressure? Your hippie-dippy mother had raised you a rebel ("_Stick it to the man, honeybun!_"), so that was no issue. Being judged was the least of your worries. The list of school supplies you'd received along with your acceptance letter hadn't said you _couldn't_ just use muggle implements, so you probably wouldn't be breaking any rules. Your only fear was maybe they just wouldn't… like… _work_, within the magical walls of this topsy turvey school. But damn it, you were so over all of this nonsense that you were willing to take the risk.

So, with a begrudgingly borrowed quill, as well as a begrudgingly borrowed owl, you wrote to your mother in a desperate plea for regular muggle school supplies. Ball point pens, composition note books, a ream of loose leaf paper. For the hell of it you requested some colored pencils and highlighters as well because what did you even have to lose at this point? Muggle primary school felt like a breeze compared to the discombobulated aggregation of scrolls, bottles and feathers you had to juggle around now. Let the Slytherin's roll their eyes and preach their supremacy; muggles certainly knew how to make _some_ aspects of life easier.

And your mother, bless her heart chakra, did not disappoint. You nearly cried with relief when you saw one of the schools great grey owls swoop into the Great Hall on a Saturday morning, weighed down by a large parcel that was clearly intended for you, if the tie-dyed scarf encasing the bundle was any indication. The owl has been particularly ornery for its efforts, and you happily shoved the Hufflepuff table's entire tray of sausages toward the creature, who seemed at least partially placated by the offering.

Whisking your spoils down to the Hufflepuff common room, you were overjoyed to see that your mother had answered your prayers and then some. Retractable pens in three different colors, a composition book for each class, paper, pencils (_colored and graphite_), assorted highlighters, a brand new planner, and a black velvet covered sketch book. You ran your fingers over this last item fondly. While everything else had likely come from a discount store, probably on sale after the school year began, the sketch book was clearly a luxury, one you intended to cherish. You hadn't thought to bring one through the whirlwind of discovering you were a witch, but now that you were here, your fingers were already itching to commit your newest discoveries to paper. You wondered if you could charm the illustrations to make them move.

In addition to your new supplies, your mother had also tossed in some sherbet straws, a jar of licorice allsorts, and inexplicably, a bag of crystals. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at your mother's proclivities, especially now that you knew there was such a thing as _real_ magic, and not just the kinda fake sounding wiccy magik that your mother had been dabbling in since _she_ was a teenager. You vaguely wondered if there was any stock in her beliefs. Sure, muggles couldn't perform the kind of magic you were learning now, but did amethyst really offer protection? Did citrine attract success? Did agate soothe anxiety? Would the overwhelming scent of patchouli wafting from this little bag of trinkets attract a lover? You bristle and roll your eyes at the thought, but tie the pouch around the strap of your school bag anyway. If nothing else, it was a memento from your well-meaning mother, and you would cherish that as well. You were already looking forward to Christmas (_Yule_?) just so you could see her again. Mere words on paper did not do this new life of yours justice.

And speaking of words on paper, with your new arsenal of muggle writing paraphernalia, you sallied forth to re-write your Potions essay. Maybe it would be even more polished this time around. This seemed doubtful, since it was practically a throw away essay on safety standards, basic ingredients and core disciplines of the craft. Every essay was probably going to be a carbon copy. But still… re-writing the thing was hardly a chore. Potions was shaping up to be your favorite class thus far because frankly, it was easy.

You'd been a little baffled to see so many students around you struggling to brew, when the entire process came quite naturally to you. The cause of the dissonance presented itself when you realized that there was a high probability that none of the other children around you had ever cooked anything in their lives. Maybe their parents cooked everything for them, or worse, their parents had used magic to cook and completely bypassed any practical kitchen skills. Your mother had you scrambling eggs by the time she deemed you tall enough to safely work the stove, and your skills progressed from there with abandon. Though potions making was a more exact science, the basic similarities between brewing, baking and cooking remained the same, and for some reason, you felt like this gave you an edge.

After a 'productive' weekend of re-writing essays and notes, organizing your new school gear and gorging yourself on licorice, you strode into your Monday morning Potions class with an air of confidence that was probably misplaced. Your second draft essay _had_ turned out particularly good, though that could have just been that sweet, sweet muggle ink talking. It even _looked_ better on the weathered old parchment than the quill scratching ever had. No unsightly drips or ink bleeding. Just smooth lines accentuating your own pretty penmanship. Though you were a little miffed about having to write on old parchment with your new pens, you didn't dare risk lined paper in fear of breaking some rule you didn't know existed.

After taking your usual place in the third row, you extracted said parchment scroll from your stained bag and winced as it wrenched itself from your fingers to be whisked away across the room, settling with the rest of the homework piled up on Snape's desk. The man's back was turned on the class as he wrote the days assignment the old fashioned way on the black board, and you had to wonder how he did that. It was the same every time homework was due. You'd be lucky if your fingers weren't paper-cut to ribbons by the end of the semester.

Content that you hadn't been sliced up this time around, you set about your now standard pre-class procedure. After setting up your work station and collecting the day's ingredients, you pulled your unruly mass of blonde waves into a high ponytail in a vain attempt at keeping it away from potion fumes. Calling Snape 'greasy' was a common insult whispered between students, but you intimately empathized with the struggle. The second you bent over a simmering cauldron, your own hair frizzed out of control, and if it was a particularly steamy concoction, even in the chill of the dungeon your waves would be matted to your scalp and the back of your neck with sweat before class was over. After the first week of this, you told yourself you'd get up early to braid your hair into some complex plait before Potions to save yourself from this agony, but those notions always went the way of the lie-in instead. Even with the ponytail, you'd be a slimy mess yourself before the period was over. You couldn't imagine having to deal with this _all day long_. No wonder the man was an oil-slick. Unless he greased it himself to keep it from frizzing out…? Now _there_ was an image.

You bit your bottom lip to hide your grin, trying not to giggle at the thought and break the silence of the classroom as you extracted your notebook and (_brand new_!) pen from your bag. Flipping to the next blank page after all of your transferred notes, you gave the black board a cursory glance, before bending over your notebook and poising yourself to copy down the day's recip- _formula_. You pushed your thumb down on the button on the back end of your pen…

And the resounding click echoed through the silent dungeon like a gun shot.

You'd forgotten… that these stupid things… _made_ _noise_. Potions class was always hear-a-pin-drop quiet. And you'd just shattered that. Like an _idiot_. Several heads turned your way at once, and you suddenly found yourself very much at the unwanted center of attention. A droplet of sweat rolled down the back of your neck, and you couldn't blame it on the heat of bubbling cauldrons just yet. Your face was probably hot enough to brew the day's potion over. The gazes that had rotated your direction held an assortment of expressions, from bewilderment to disapproval to alarm. But none of them really mattered. In this solitary moment of utter mortification, the only significant regard came from your professor; glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, and mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer. You refused to be intimidated by _anyone_, but god, that look could make even the strongest resolve quake.

"Miss Goode," Snape admonished, causing all the eyes that were on you to snap back to him. And while you were grateful to no longer be scrutinized by your peers, Snape's _direct_ attention was on _you_. And you really wished the castle would do you a solid and just open the floor beneath your stool to swallow you up, providing an escape from that disdain. But the castle was not so loyal, and the professor continued, his baritone as reproachful as ever. "See me after class."

It took several tries for you to get your tongue unstuck from the roof of your mouth before you croaked out a quiet "Yes, sir." When the professor found your assent satisfactory and he returned his attention to the board, your body collapsed like a wet noodle against the work desk as you buried your face into your arms. No public humiliation? No house points taken? Not even some cutting quip or poisonous jab? Just… See him after class? For _what_? He totally got off on belittling people in public. What sort of suffering could he possibly have planned for a private audience? And what were you going to be punished for anyway? It couldn't be just for disrupting class. That would have been a house point deduction at the very worst, along with a handy insult. Were you actually breaking school rules with your muggle supplies? Were they _contraband_? Oh god why hadn't you just _asked_ someone first?

You wearily raised your head as the lecture began, and finally got about to actually using the blasted pen that had gotten you into this mess to take notes. At least it hadn't been taken away… yet. You would enjoy it while you still could. Class continued as normal, and you chopped and stirred and simmered as required, but you felt as though you were on auto-pilot; not absorbing any information, just going through the motions and applying the bare minimum in terms of effort.

You weren't _scared_. You were just… anxious. What's the worst that could happen? You'd have everything confiscated and you'd be back to square one with a stupid bird feather and a few less house points for Hufflepuff. It was whatever else Snape was going to _say_ that had your body buzzing with apprehension. You'd been at Hogwarts for less than a month, but even you were aware that most Slytherin's thought they were superior, some of them by virtue of their blood alone. Was the grand leader of them all planning to mock you for your choice of muggle convenience? And, more pressingly, would you be able to hold your tongue if he did? 'Do no harm, but take no shit' was the most important virtue instilled upon you by your mother, but it usually just got you into trouble.

You made it through the rest of the class period without incident. After bottling the cure for boils you'd brewed (_you shuddered when you realized exactly what it was you were brewing, mostly apprehensive about how its effectiveness would be tested next class and wishing you'd perhaps put in a little extra effort_), you sluggishly tidied up your work station and tried to ignore the sympathetic looks you were getting from your fellow classmates. While your nerves felt steadier, you were still on edge, your mind churning with potential excuses and smart comebacks that you'd never remember to use once you were actually face to face with the issue. When the castle bells chimed that class was over, you carefully returned your text and note books to your bag, and remained firmly in your seat while the rest of the class filed out.

And then the classroom was empty and still, but for the ever present trickle of water from the gargoyle font in the corner. It was almost… peaceful? The calm before the storm? You sighed through your nose and allowed the perceived tranquility to bolster your resolve. You would not be shaken. Or stirred. You snorted at your own private little joke before sliding off of your stool and making your way back towards the professor's office.

Which… is where you _assumed_ Snape was. You'd had your head down for so long you hadn't actually seen where he'd disappeared to. As you lightly rapped your knuckles against the ajar door, it swung open slowly, and you slipped through the narrow opening into what was clearly the most interesting room you'd seen in the castle thus far.

It was probably a bad move to completely ignore the professor who sat bent over his desk, but as it seemed he was completely ignoring _you_, you took the opportunity to gaze at the ghastly assortment of creatures and plant life suspended in glass around the perimeter of the room. It was… horrifying. But undeniably fascinating. Like seeing preserved animals at a natural history museum, except that you had no idea what any of these things _were_. You'd just taken a step towards the nearest shelf in an attempt to read one of the hand written labels when-

"Miss Goode. How kind of you to finally join me."

Oh, right. You suppressed a shiver against the splash of ice water those words had cast down your spine, and you briefly closed your eyes to regather your wits. Okay, you deserved that one for getting distracted from the problem at hand, but how could you be blamed? There were slimy things! In jars! This was a kid-in-a-candy-shop moment for you! Swallowing thickly, you turned on your heel to face the professor, a contrite smile tugging at your lips.

"My apologies, Professor," you murmured, taking the few steps to stand before Snape's desk, hands clutching the strap of your bag as your fingers slid anxiously over the silky pouch of crystals tied around it. Summoning the boldness that your mother had nurtured, you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, and you were struck by the fact you'd never seen him this close before.

And God, he was the oldest looking 23 year old you'd ever seen in your life. Maybe that was an odd first thought. You were only aware of his age because it was apparently notable that he was one of the youngest professorial appointees in the school's history. But looking at him now, you never would have guessed him to even be in his 20's, much less _early_ 20's. He had a face made for currency, bold features that would appear almost noble, were they not engraved in a perpetual facade of mild annoyance and seething disgust. But you were also struck by the dark smudges under his eyes, the lines around his mouth and forehead, the weariness in his gaze. This was the face of a much older man, and that made you feel… some sort of way. You didn't have time to analyze the sensation before your reprimand began.

"Miss Goode," Snape repeated your name, leaning his elbows forward on his desk as he tented his fingers, looking across at you with a faint roll of his eyes, presumably at your apparent air-headedness. This was it though. He had your attention. "Concerning what occurred at the start of class today. You're a half-blood witch, are you not? What happened, exactly, for you to feel the need to reject the long-standing wizarding custom of quills and ink?"

Your mouth fell open slightly, shocked that you'd apparently nailed exactly what you would be ridiculed for, but also taken aback by the delivery. You thought you ought to be offended at the implications of your blood status, but you quickly snapped your mouth shut with an irritated huff. Your brows drew together as you felt your hackles rise, and you had a bad feeling about what might come out of your mouth.

"If you _must_ know, Professor," you dictated, wishing you could tone down your ire, but knowing you wouldn't. "I don't have any idea who my father might have been, and my mother was the muggle half of that equation. I wasn't raised with any such customs."

Snape at least had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable, his hands unfolding from their tent to rest directly on the desk, his eyebrow falling to a more conventional level as he leaned back in his chair. In your mind, you let out a triumphant whoop and gave yourself a gold star for managing to put a chip in that stone mask. But you also took pity. It wasn't like he could have known, and you appreciated the penitent look he was giving you. At least you took it for penitence. If nothing else, you were even now; he called you out for dawdling, and you merely returned the favor.

"As for your question though, I…" You faltered, heat suffusing your face as you realized you had to admit that you _were_ sort of an air-head. You sighed and looked away from him, chewing the inside of your cheek as you mumbled. "An ink bottle shattered in my bag a few days ago. It ruined a bunch of my text books and I even had to re-write the essay that was due this morning… So I had my mother send me some stuff…" you trailed off. Jeeze. It sounded so childish now that you were saying it out loud. But you still stood by your decision. You were decidedly over it as you turned your eyes back to his. "Just because something is traditional doesn't mean it's practical."

That earned you a new expression. A smirk! And not even the kind of 'gotcha' smirk you were used to seeing Snape don in the classroom as he caught some unwitting student in a tangle of words. He almost looked impressed with you, which was… concerning. The suspicion must have been evident on your face as he canted his head, lacing his fingers together as he leaned toward you once more.

"I couldn't agree more," Snape concurred, and he was clearly trying to suppress his grin from broadening as you blinked rapidly in confusion. You ceased fidgeting with the pouch of crystals dangling from your bag, your hands instead falling dumbly to your sides as you openly gawked. He… what? _What?_ You had run through so many possible scenarios and outcomes of this particular meeting, and none of them had gone in this direction. It left you feeling unstable and stupid, but thankfully he didn't leave you floundering for long (_though it was clear to you that he enjoyed watching you squirm_). Getting a hold of his features, he leveled you with another discerning look, eyebrow popping right back up to its sardonic heights. "Do you have any in red?"

Your eyes widened slightly, though you managed not to let your mouth fall open like a dying fish this time. You almost couldn't comprehend what he was saying, what he was _asking_, because the entire situation felt surreal. Or like a set-up. You were just waiting for the punchline. Were you really not in trouble? Had he truly accosted you simply to get in on some of that (_sweet, sweet_) muggle utility? If writing essays with a quill was a chore, you couldn't imagine grading them. _Hundreds_ of them. But, once again, you didn't have time to analyze. He was waiting for your reply, and if his eyebrow rose any higher it would fly off of his face. You had to bite the inside of your cheek once again to keep yourself from giggling at your own imagery. You'd certainly concocted a few good doodle ideas for your new sketch book.

Looking down at your school bag, you lifted its flap to begin the search for your stash of red pens, when a thought occurred to you. A devious little thought that… if you weren't going to lose house points for your disruption earlier, you'd probably lose them now. But it was your only chance, an opportunity you'd be fool to let go. And the worst that could happen was that he'd say 'no'. You ran your thumb over the corner of a bundle of loose leaf in your bag, and you didn't dare look him in the eye as you asked, "May I write my essays on lined paper?"

Snape's other eyebrow shot up to meet the first, a look of genuine surprise flickering across his face before he once again regained control of his features. Whether it was your audacity or your foolishness that had caused such a reaction, you thought you might give yourself another gold star anyway; collecting new Snape Facial Expressions was becoming a rather fun game. Your counter-offer didn't leave him as speechless as his initial offer had made you, but it did take him a few moments before asking for clarification, "Medium ruled?"

What you hoped was a triumphant smirk was actually more of an elated beam. Your daring had paid off, and you quickly whipped out a sheet from the sheaf in your bag, holding it across the desk for him to inspect. You hoped that brow quirk was in amusement instead of annoyance, but Snape snatched the paper from you with a quick flick of his fingers before setting it down on his desk and producing a battered wooden ruler from a drawer to his left. He wasn't fooling around. He checked the length of the page, even went so far as to measure the margins, and you wondered if he was putting on a show to make you squirm again. Because you were. Your smile had slipped down as you observed his scrutiny, fretting that your daring had, in fact, _not_ paid off in the slightest and he was about to make a fool of you as you'd originally feared. But you needn't have worried as he tapped the page with his fingers, giving a slight nod of approval. "As long as you've got the inches, you could write on papyrus for all I care."

Your delighted smile returned, and you made no effort to hide it this time as you returned your attention to your bag, digging through its contents before producing two red filled retractable pens. You held them out with the deference one might show a bouquet of flowers, and suppressed a giggle as Snape rolled his eyes before snatching them from your hand. The gesture dampened your glee a little, but you still allowed yourself to smile at your own well played transaction. You watched as he gave the pen a satisfying click with his thumb, before he scribbled the nib in tight little loops against the corner of the paper to get the ink flowing.

"What is your next class?" he enquired, already scrawling out a note on the sheet of lined paper you had provided, though you had a difficult time making out his spindly handwriting, especially upside down.

"Transfiguration," you answered, tilting your head slightly as you watched the red lines form an address to Minerva McGonagall.

"She ought to appreciate the color palette," Snape murmured, and you suppressed yet another giggle. Was that a _joke_? Well okay no it was clearly more of a jab at the Gryffindor Head if the return of his scowl was any indication. But still! It was funny. Especially coming from him. He finally straightened up, handing the sheet of paper back to you with a flourish, and you realized it was a pass excusing you for being late to Transfiguration. You took it from him gratefully, folding it in half to slip into the pocket of your robe.

Snape was already pulling essays from the pile of scrolls to begin grading with his (_brand new_!) red pen, and you fidgeted awkwardly for a few moments, wondering if he would dismiss you, or if you should just take the hint and leave on your own. Choosing the latter option, you gave his office one more wistful look, before turning to make your way out.

"Miss Goode?" he called, causing your footsteps to stutter just as you'd reached the door. You looked over your shoulder at him, his head still bowed over his work.

"Sir?" you asked quietly, feeling that restless buzz creep over your skin once again. What did he want now?

There was a pause, his attention still trained away from you, before he spoke. "That was a very Slytherin move you pulled just now," he commented, finally lifting his eyes to look you over appraisingly. "Five points to Hufflepuff. But don't press your luck like that again."

Your eyes widened, but you nodded your assent quickly, squeaking "yes sir" before you fled from the office. You only made it half way across the classroom before you burst into nervous giggles, the sound bubbling out of you as the tension receded from your body. What the bloody hell just happened? It was so glorious and nerve-wracking that you didn't know whether to laugh or cry, though your addled brain clearly thought that laughter was the answer. Your mind was racing, swirling with so much new information to examine about your boorish professor. You were just starting to compile a list of questions in your mind, when Snape's voice rang out through the dungeon and scared you out of your skin.

"On your way, Miss Goode!"

You hadn't shut the office door behind you, you realized, and you yelped out another startled "Yes sir!" as you dashed for the classroom door. If he didn't already think you were batty, he certainly would now. Your nervous laughter continued as you walked through the silent, empty dungeon corridors, rubbing your hand over your face as you tried to get a grip on yourself. What an absolute enigma of a man.

And yet, you felt an odd sort of kinship with him now. At the very least, you'd managed to endear yourself to him through a mutual disdain for some of the more unreasonable practices of the wizarding world. And you couldn't help but wonder where that came from. He wasn't utterly oblivious to muggle technology, like most pure-blooded wizards seemed to be. He knew what a pen was, how it worked. He knew what medium ruled paper was, had measured it himself. Was he like you? Raised more muggle than magic? That seemed unlikely for the Head of Slytherin house, but you were coming to understand that such bias was… well. It was just as bad as the bias you were criticizing Slytherin for having in the first place.

You tapped your fingers against your brow, as if attempting to nail that epiphany down. It wouldn't do to make assumptions about anyone here, based on house or blood or any other label. You'd been wrong to pigeonhole Professor Snape as some jerk based on the derision of other students. Hell, he'd even given you a compliment, if being compared to a Slytherin could be taken as such, which coming from him, certainly was. You felt like you were on his good side now, and you were determined to stay there if you could help it. You already had an edge in Potions. Now it was merely a matter of keeping it sharp.


	2. Chapter 2 - Good Morning

The first day of your second year at Hogwarts found you standing in the damp dungeons first thing in the morning, leaning against the wall next to the Potions classroom door, because you're an over-eager ninny with nothing better to do, apparently. You ought to be upstairs in the Great Hall right now, enjoying a leisurely breakfast as you compared schedules with your friends and shared stories of your summer vacations. Instead, you'd grabbed a slice of toast and ate it on your way down here, hoping to head off Professor Snape before first period, only to find the Potions classroom locked.

So you thought it might be prudent to wait for him, taking the time to study your new class schedule (_you didn't even _have_ Potions today_) and finish your toast… But the man was still nowhere in sight. As the minutes ticked by, you found yourself in a horrible sort of limbo; if you left now, the whole endeavor would have been a waste of time, but you had already wasted _so_ much time that waiting any longer seemed futile at best. Waiting for Snape hadn't turned out to be so prudent after all. But you'd _really_ been hoping to catch him before classes began…

Maybe this whole thing was a stupid idea. Snape had warned you last year not to press your luck again, and you'd done well to heed this advice. You did the work, you studied hard, and through your own tenacity, had succeeded in receiving some of the highest marks in Potions for your year. You didn't believe that Snape favored you in any way, not like he did the Slytherin's at least, but you had laid the groundwork for a sort of mutual respect that had lasted through the term, and perhaps _that_ had worked in your favor. You found that if you didn't give him cause to pick on you, he wouldn't. He hadn't given you any trouble at all, really, because you did as you were told, followed directions, and nailed every single potion you'd brewed in his classroom. And though he graded your work just as harshly as everyone else's, the fact of the matter was that you hadn't actually seen too many of those red pen marks on your papers last year.

But you _had_ noticed that he'd switched back to quills and ink sometime in the spring. Of course, your natural reaction upon viewing this had been the brilliant plan to bring him more pens in the fall. It just seemed the proper thing to do. And when summer rolled around, you'd gone and done exactly that, though it had come at a steep and embarrassing price. While shopping for school supplies the week before your return, your mother had enquired as to why you felt you needed so many red pens. You had sheepishly admitted that they weren't for you, but for one of your professors, and this had been a mistake. Your mother had teasingly asked (_SANG_) if you were 'Hot for Teacher' and you silently cursed Van Halen while hiding your boiling face in your hands in the middle of the supply store. When you returned home, you wondered if you could _actually_ curse Van Halen, as your mother proceeded to play the B side of '1984' on loop for the remainder of the day.

You most certainly were _not_ hot for teacher. But you were admittedly curious about Snape, and you weren't the only one. There were so many wild rumors and accusations swirling about the man, and while some of them were absolutely absurd (_Was he a vampire? Half dementor?_), you also noticed that there wasn't much of an attempt to quell any of them either. It was as if he wanted these stories to circulate, to keep up his image as The Demon of the Dungeons.

You'd noticed last night at the feast that he'd undergone a wardrobe change as well. Last year he'd worn rather ill-fitting robes, usually with dark slacks and plain dress shirts. _This_ year… While the color palette of black on black had remained the same, you'd never seen so many buttons on a frock coat, and had certainly never seen _every single one of them_ done up like that. It must be absolutely suffocating, the only exposed skin being his face and his fingers, the hem of his sleeves ending just above the knuckles. It was an intimidating look, for certain.

But it just made you wonder what he was hiding.

Your mother often described you as precocious; too perceptive for your own good. She would also insist that she didn't know where you got it from, but you reckoned it had something to do with the fact that she spoke to you like you were an adult from the day you were born (_with the exception of saccharine pastry based nicknames, of course_). She tread a gossamer line between cool hippie mom and actual responsible adult, but the combination was a potent one. She raised you without pretense, never lying when you asked your questions, never sugarcoating the truth. The only thing she sugarcoated were cookies, and for that you were grateful. Your perception of the world was imbued with a stubborn desire for the truth, as well as an expectation to receive nothing but, and there was nothing you hated more than when you realized an adult was deceiving you.

Not that you thought Snape was deceiving you, specifically. But it seemed that he had some sort of agenda that included getting students (_and everyone else probably_) to actively hate him. And it drove. You. Bananas. That's not how teachers were supposed to be! You'd been friendly with nearly every primary school teacher you'd ever had, as well as most of your current teachers here at Hogwarts. Even if you disliked a teacher, it was probably because you disliked their _subject_, or their way of teaching. But you loved Potions, and Snape was actually a fine teacher if you paid careful attention.

It was everything _else_ he did, the stalking about, the intimidation, the theatrics, which obviously made it difficult for some students to concentrate, that absolutely baffled you. It was as if he didn't even want to _be_ a teacher. And maybe he didn't. Which again begged the question; _what was he hiding? _Or perhaps… rather… what was he hiding _from_? The clothes, the rumors, the insults. You recognized them all as defense mechanisms, but why they were in place, you didn't know.

Your mind often wandered back to that fateful meeting in your first year, where you felt as though you got a glimpse of the person Snape was under all of those barriers. You had no desire to make assumptions, but your questions about him still remained. Was he like you? A half-blood or something close? Did he also see the dichotomy between the wizarding and muggle worlds, and find it rather inane that Muggle technology continued to advance while magic folk remained in the dark ages? Why had he become a teacher at such a young age if he appeared to loathe the position? And why did he look so old, despite being so young? You acknowledged you would probably never receive the answers to these questions, it wasn't any of your business to begin with, but they still buzzed in your brain none-the-less. Enigmatic didn't feel strong enough a word.

You were startled from your musings when you heard quick, sharp footsteps echoing against the stone walls of the dungeon. God, _finally_. You had no idea what time it was, but you hoped that the warning bell for first period wasn't about to go off. You straightened up, fidgeting with the pouch of crystals that still hung from the strap of your bag, as you watched Professor Snape practically billow around the corner. Oh yes, the new outfit certainly had a dramatic effect. You imagined he'd be able to clear a path through any crowded corridor now, not that his glare alone wasn't able to do that before. His steps stuttered a moment upon seeing you there, the line creasing his brow hardening ever so slightly as he slowed his gait, advancing towards you unhurriedly.

"Miss Goode," Snape greeted stiltedly, stopping in front of the classroom door before crossing his arms over his chest, his robes draping around him like great bat wings. Yes, yes; very Lugosi. Maybe he'd had some cinematic inspiration. "I don't have any Hufflepuff classes today. Are you lost?"

Snape certainly didn't waste any time, unlike yourself. You wondered, again, if this had been a stupid idea. It seemed he was already exasperated by your presence, and you hadn't even opened your mouth yet. Smiling ruefully, you shook your head in response to his inquiry. "No, sir. Not lost. I wanted to see you before classes began. Is there time?"

Snape regarded you with a look of confusion, his brows pressing further together as he tilted his head with a tick of annoyance. He pursed his lips a moment before questioning, "Time for _what_, exactly?" Uncrossing his arms, he extracted his wand from his robes before muttering a spell to unlock the classroom door and stepping inside, leaving you standing in the corridor like a fool.

Taking a deep breath, you let it out slowly through your nose before you turned and followed Snape inside, staying a few paces behind so as not to be accosted by the billowing fabric that trailed him. You could just imagine stepping on the back of his robes and sending you both careening down the stone stairs into the classroom. When he reached the end of said stairs and looked back over his shoulder at you, you got the feeling that he hadn't actually expected you to follow him. And now you wondered if you should have. But steeling your nerves, you stopped at the bottom of the steps behind him and smiled once again, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt.

"I've brought you a gift," you stated easily enough, but the ferocity with which Snape rounded on you then was so startling that you actually did stumble on the steps. Your heels knocked against the bottom stair, and with nothing to grab on to, you fell back hard onto your arse against the top step of the small flight. The unforgiving stone sent a bolt of hot agony through your tailbone and up your spine, and you grimaced, squeezing your eyes shut tightly as blood roared in your ears. You felt your face burn red hot with both shame and suppressed tears, as any abrupt shock of pain always triggered that sort of childish reaction in you. You wanted to cover your face with your hands, but you kept them fisted tightly around the strap of your bag, willing yourself to keep it together. You did _not_ want to cry in front of Snape.

There was a lull of silence that felt like it lasted an age, and even though your pain was already subsiding, the longer the silence stretched, the closer you felt to bursting into tears. You were finally broken out of your miserable daze by the surprisingly gentle touch of a hand against your elbow. You sucked in a sharp gasp as you finally opened your eyes, and it stuttered out slowly as you felt hot tears slip down your cheeks. You were staring down at Snape's shiny black shoes, and couldn't bring yourself to look up at him as he tugged on your arm.

"Get up," he commanded, though his voice had taken on a considerably milder tone. "Come on. You're alright." His gruff coaxing was actually soothing your nerves as opposed to fraying them, like maybe he wasn't totally infuriated with you, and you were finally able to comply, allowing him to pull you up with a little assistance on your part. You quickly swiped the sleeve of your robe across your eyes, wiping away any stray tears before hesitantly meeting his gaze. He looked… penitent again. Not openly, mind; his brows were still pressed together in a stern line, and his lips were still pulled down into a scowl, but none of it met his dark eyes, which were softer than you'd ever seen them. It was a stark contrast to the outraged glower that had sent you falling back onto your arse.

Releasing your elbow, Snape took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest once more as he considered you, and he did you both a favor by not mentioning what had just occurred. It was certainly a perfect opportunity to taunt you, but perhaps because it had been his fault, he chose to disregard it. Instead, he sighed, exasperation once again permeating his tone, but you felt there was a hint of indulgence in it as well, as if he were playing along for your benefit as an act of contrition. "A gift, you say?" he asked, his signature brow arch creeping up his forehead. "Brought a shiny red apple for teacher on the first day of school, have you?"

At this, you finally allowed yourself to smile again. It was small, and rather vexed on your own part as well, but he was playing nice, and so you'd accept the token of repentance. You knew a 'sorry' when you saw one. "It's not an apple," you clarified as you flipped open the flap of your bag. "But they _are_ red." You produced a small bundle, four red pens held together by a length of black velvet ribbon tied in a prim little bow. They were nicer than the ones from last year, as those had been intended for your own personal use. These were of a much higher quality, and you'd paid for them with your own pocket money when your mother had continued to tease you about it. You presented them to him, your eyes shifting demurely away from his as you explained, "I noticed you ran out last year, so I just thought…"

He wasn't taking them. Your fingers trembled slightly as your smile faded away. Yeah. This had been a stupid idea. Your own brows pressed together in doubt as you finally chanced a glace back to him, and only when you'd made eye contact did he finally speak. "Miss Goode, you realize you're under no obligation to supply me with these, correct?"

Your mouth dropped open, your aggravation growing by the minute. "Of course. That's not why I-"

"Are you trying to bribe me?" he interrupted, any sympathy for you vanishing from his voice, replaced instead with genuine condemnation. "Curry my favor to keep you at the top of your class? It wouldn't be the first time a student has tried it."

"No!" you retaliated, fingers clutching into a fist around your proffered gift as you pulled them close to your chest. You were horrified and enraged that he was actually accusing you of such a thing. You were a Hufflepuff for god's sake! As if you had a single conniving bone in your body. You were so hurt by his allegation that you couldn't stop yourself from running off at the mouth. "I would never do such a thing! And I have no need to! I'm at the top of my class because I-!" You realized you were shouting, and there were angry tears stinging behind your eyes again. You shut them tightly and lowered your voice. "Because I'm _actually_ good at it. I don't need _your_ favor for that."

There was a beat of silence, the only sound being the heave of your labored breaths as you tried to calm yourself down. Opening your eyes again, you were once more staring down at his shoes, and this time you refused to meet his eye. You'd stand there all day if you needed to. But it didn't take that long. Voice still laced with suspicion, he began to question, "Then why would you-"

"Because!" you cut him off, so frustrated that you found your voice hiking up again. "Contrary to your apparent beliefs, I don't actually need an ulterior motive to try and be nice to you!" You tossed the pens onto the nearest work desk and turned on your heel, not even sparing him another glance as you stormed out of the classroom, your own robes billowing impressively in the process.

It wasn't until there were two floors between yourself and the Potions classroom that you realized how absolutely reckless you'd just been. Could a house have points taken away if they hadn't received any yet? It was only the start of term after all. Maybe Snape would just put Hufflepuff in the hole and you'd start the year out in the negatives. Were you going to get detention? What kind of punishment was there for yelling at a teacher?

You were unable to concentrate through the entirety of your History of Magic class (_not unusual_). You kept running the events of the morning over in your head, and all that you could think about was the fact that you'd probably just destroyed that foundation of respect you'd worked to build last year. You anticipated hell when you had your first Potions class later in the week, and you feared for your grades. You'd convinced yourself that Snape was indeed a perfectly capable teacher, and you weren't worried about your ability to brew. Any practical work would still be a breeze. But you wouldn't put it past him to nitpick every assignment, essay and test you submitted just so he could whittle your scores down to the lowest possible grade. And you felt he'd start picking on you again, treating you like an idiot just like he treated everyone else, despite your talent.

But what pissed you off even more was the fact that _you felt bad_. You thought your gesture had been kind. You thought that the respect you'd developed had run both ways. And damn it, you wanted him to like you! Because despite his cruelty, you thought you liked him too. He was sarcastic and nasty, but also clever and brilliant, and it was all just so morbidly endearing. You wanted to know what he kept hidden behind all of his masks and armor. You wanted him to think you were worthy of something, that you possessed the predisposition, that you appreciated the art and the science of potions. You didn't think there was anything wrong with wanting to be friends with a teacher. You'd done the same thing in primary school. You even felt like you were already friends with Sprout and Hagrid. Why should Snape be _any_ different?

Because, apparently, he just _was_. A goddamn enigma. He was so intriguing and so infuriating that you didn't know which way was up with him. And the paradox that was Snape continued to puzzle you through the rest of the day, culminating at lunch time when you settled into the Great Hall with your friends, who had noticed your distracted mood, but didn't press you on it. The first thing you noticed were the hourglasses which held the house points, and the fact that Hufflepuff had just as many as any of the other houses. A little more than Gryffindor, but a little less than Slytherin, with Ravenclaw in the lead, for now. So… he _couldn't_ deduct negative points? Because you had a hard time believing that he hadn't tried. Maybe he was waiting for Hufflepuff to earn a sufficient amount before taking them away.

The second thing you noticed, was that Snape was up at the teachers table, and he was ignoring you. Not unusual, but still troubling. He wasn't deducting house points, he wasn't shooting you dirty looks, and he wasn't marching over to give you detention for the rest of your life. You knew there would be consequences for your actions on this day. So where were they?

Your answer arrived by owl post. As the afternoon owls swept in, a tiny, dark owl you didn't recognize plopped a small scroll on top of your uneaten bowl of fruit. You snatched it up quickly so it wouldn't get wet, and narrowed your eyes at the owl as it took off. You were already in a bad temper. You didn't need bloody owls ruining your mail. Sighing, you looked down at the scroll, and your mouth went dry as you saw it was tied with a frightfully familiar black velvet ribbon. Your gaze shot back to the teachers table, but Snape was nowhere to be seen. He must have left. With trembling fingers, you pulled on the ribbon and let it flutter to your lap, before slipping the scroll under the table and unraveling it out of view.

Written in spidery cursive with smooth red ink, were the words 'Thank you for the gift.'


	3. Chapter 3 - Hypnosis

Joshua DeJarnette had insulted your mother.

You, in turn, had rearranged his smug Slytherin face.

With your fists.

It perhaps was not your finest moment. 'Do no harm' often took a back seat to 'take no shit', especially when your mothers reputation was involved. Not that you were prone to fist fights, but you had been in enough of them in primary school to know what you were doing. You weren't a bully. No, more often you were the one _being_ bullied, and you'd learned to defend yourself any way you could.

Your mother had you out of wedlock when she was 23. In fact, she couldn't even put a name or a face to the man who had sired you, who'd apparently been a wizard. She believed you'd been conceived in the back of a split window bus at a music festival in 1971, but even of that she couldn't be certain. It never bothered you as a child that you didn't have a father, or that your mother didn't have much money, or that strange things seemed to happen around you when you were feeling sad or scared. But it sure seemed to bother everyone else, and these facts had been their ammunition.

You'd hoped to leave all of that stigma behind when you started attending Hogwarts. You could carve out a new identity for yourself. No one had to know that you were poor, or that you didn't have a dad. But it somehow still managed to become a hot topic in your third year anyway. Anything meant to stay secret at Hogwarts became public knowledge in no time it seemed, especially when there were paintings and ghosts that could gossip. Even so, you thought that it wouldn't be a big deal; it wasn't as if you were the only half-blood in the school. And yet, you stood out. Because while the other half-bloods had been raised with at least some knowledge of the wizarding world, you had not. You were about as well informed as any muggle-born, and you flaunted your ignorance with your use of muggle school supplies, your obsession with muggle music, and your affinity for muggle fashion. And apparently, to those whom actually cared about such trivial things as blood status, this was a grievous offense.

And thus began the spread of poison. The half-blood witch with only one parent, and it was the muggle one! Father was a wizard and she never even knew! What a travesty. How unfortunate that she had grown up without any magical traditions. Poor, poor thing. How had she ever gotten by without the conveniences and solutions that magic offered? Must have been a hard life! And her mother! Never even got to know the bloke well enough to know he was magic? What a slu-

Your knuckles still throbbed from where they'd collided with DeJarnette's face. You'd managed to tackle him to the ground and land three good hits on the boy's cheek, jaw and brow before you'd been pulled off of him by Professor McGonagall by the scruff of your robes, the sound of her shouts drowned out by the din of cheering and hissing from the other students around you in the Entrance Hall. You'd been immensely pleased with yourself, and goddamn it, you still were. He'd never even had the chance to reach for his wand, and probably never imagined you'd just go for it with your bare hands. You were tempted to ask during your reprimand if there had ever been a case of a Hufflepuff punching out a Slytherin before this, but you thought maybe you weren't supposed to be quite so openly proud of yourself. All of the house point deductions and detentions in the world would never actually make you feel sorry for what you'd done. The only thing you regretted was the dull ache in your hand, and not getting a fourth hit in on his nose.

And maybe you kind of regretted not wearing a sweater for your nighttime detention in the dungeons, but you'd remember to bring one tomorrow.

Of course, you'd _both_ gotten into massive trouble. There had been enough witnesses to report that you were severely provoked, and the evidence of your own retaliation was all over DeJarnette's face in deep, plum colored splotches. You'd both lost a hefty amount of house points, and you'd both been sentenced to a week's worth of detentions with the opposing houses Head. You imagined DeJarnette was in the greenhouses with Professor Sprout at the moment, and you dearly hoped the bastard was elbow deep in dragon shit compost right about now.

You, on the other hand, found yourself in the frigid dungeons, but honestly, the circumstances were quite favorable to you. You were certain not to learn a single moral lesson from this entire ordeal; you'd gotten to punch a total prat in the face, and you were then summarily rewarded with the opportunity to snoop around Snape's collection of ingredients and potions as your punishment. It was as though Christmas had come early for Gwendolyn Goode.

Your job was simple; dust, re-label and sort the ingredients and potions in Snape's office. It was a massive endeavor that would likely take the full week, and frankly, you were ecstatic for the opportunity. Even the nature of this punishment was exhilarating. On the outside, it was tedious drudge work, which involved becoming very dusty, getting up close and personal with dead, slimy things in jars, as well as risking possible exposure to some highly dangerous potions and poisons (_it wasn't a Hogwarts detention if it wasn't potentially life threatening!_).

However, to you, it spoke of a whole new level of respect reached between yourself and the Potions Master. He _trusted_ you, with his _private stores_. He thought you capable enough to handle these rare and expensive ingredients without damaging them, as well as knowledgeable enough to identify their contents and affix them with fresh labels. The fact that these new labels would be in your own handwriting had its own sort of thrill, like you were leaving your mark on something important. He could have had you scrub cauldrons or separate spider parts or something equally gross. Instead, he'd given you a project he likely wanted to do himself, but didn't have the time for. You knew Snape wouldn't have given this sort of detention to just any dunderhead. He'd given it to _you_.

Your rapport with Professor Snape had improved considerably since last term. Though your second year had gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, your fears of his retribution after the incident with your 'gift' had been unfounded. You stayed in your lane, and he stayed in his. Your dedication to the craft had paid off, and not only did you receive high marks, you had ended up at _the_ top of your year. You were told that it had been the first time in 14 years that _anyone_ outside of Slytherin had headed the class in Potions. You weren't breaking records yet (_you could only guess who held _those) but you thought perhaps you were well on your way to. You hadn't just been posturing when you'd shouted in Snape's face that you were actually good; you'd proved it to him. And, at the start of your third year, he had accepted your gift of another supply of red pens with only a curt nod and a brusque expression of gratitude.

Neither of you had said much since you'd arrived in the dungeons after dinner to receive your punishment. Snape had explained what you were to do, showed you the new labels you were to use, taught you a quick sticking and unsticking charm for said labels (_he didn't have the patience to make you pick them off or glue them on manually_), and had left you to it while he sat at his desk, grading papers. The silence was only punctuated by the scribble of pen on parchment, the clink of jars and glasses, and the soft whisper of your spell work.

Presently, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor behind Snape's desk, an incredibly large jar containing what looked to be an entire preserved Glower Eel resting in your lap. Its ropey black body was curled in a spiral that pressed against the glass of the jar, while its head bobbed lifelessly towards the top, a mouth full of needle like teeth gaping open at you. What impressed you most was that it was still _glowing_, the spots and ridges that speckled the length of its sinewy form shone with faint, earie yellow light, despite how very dead the animal clearly was. You'd already written and affixed the label to the glass, but you were taking your time admiring the morbid beauty of this… corpse. What was it even used for? Why did Snape keep it? It looked more like a taxidermy display than a useable ingredient for anything. You knew the properties of certain parts of this fish, most of which were rare ingredients for complicated potions. But what was the purpose of keeping the whole thing?

"I don't hear you working," came a smooth drawl from just behind you, and you gasped as you clutched the giant jar to your body in fright. Jesus! Did he _want_ you to drop it? Was he just waiting for the opportunity to get you to shatter something? Now _that_ would be the real drudge work; cleaning up shards of glass and priceless Glower Eel entrails off of a dungeon floor.

"Sorry, sir," you muttered, shifting on to your knees (_your arse had gone numb from the frozen dungeon floor_) and sliding the jar onto the bottom shelf. It seemed a shame to keep it down there. It should be proudly displayed on the mantelpiece or something. It was too pretty to keep all the way down here… But that's where the G's were located, along with Gillyweed, Ghost Slugs and Graphorn horn, just to name a few.

"I appreciate that you're taking your time with this." You heard the creak of leather and wood behind you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see Snape leaning back in his chair, twisted around so he could observe you, and of course, hit you with yet another shrewd look and arched brow. "However, I'm getting the distinct impression that you're enjoying yourself entirely too much."

You could feel the flush spreading over your cheeks at that. Caught red handed. Damn it! You should have made more of an effort to pretend that this totally sucked or something. Now maybe you _would_ end up scrubbing cauldrons… Instead of admitting that, yes, you actually _were_ enjoying yourself, you returned your attention to the Glower Eel. Placing your hand on the jar, you ran your fingertips along the curve of its twisted body before asking, "Why do you keep the whole thing?"

There was a moment's pause, followed by a quiet "Pardon?"

You looked over your shoulder to face him again, and you found him regarding you with a slightly less intimidating look. Keen as always, but at least now he didn't look irritated with you. "The Glower Eel," you questioned. "Why do you keep the whole eel, instead of breaking it down into parts? Wouldn't it be easier to store just the things you need? It's… kind of big, to be preserving the entire fish."

There was another beat of silence, as if Snape was debating whether or not to indulge your curiosity, or rebuke your obvious attempt to change the subject. Tapping his pen against his desk a few times, he came to his decision and committed to it by dropping the pen and shifting his chair to face you more easily. You remained knelt down on the floor, and he leaned one elbow against the arm of his chair, lacing his fingers in his lap before crossing one knee over the other. "What are the essential parts of the Glower Eel in regards to potion making?" he questioned, in full on Potions Master mode.

You perked up, eager for a chance to learn something new. "The teeth, eyes, and… uh… glowy… bits." You closed your eyes and mentally pinched yourself. Yeah, great job showing off there, genius. When you cracked open one eye, you could tell he was trying to refrain from openly laughing at you.

"Bioluminescence," he provided, though it had the air of a simple correction, and not an insult. "In this case, caused by the symbiosis between fish and bioluminescent bacteria. The bacterial colonies themselves have very powerful magical properties when thriving, and are used exclusively in some… more esoteric potions. The glow of the bacteria attract prey towards the eel, the eel gets to eat, and the bacteria reap the benefit of feeding off of a living host."

Your eyes snapped anxiously back to the jar as you jerked your hand away from it, as if it would jump to life and snap at you through the glass right as Snape said the word 'living'. This time he _did_ let out an audible snort, and he shook his head, massaging his temple with two fingers.

"The eel is quite dead, Miss Goode, I can assure you. However it is suspended in a Stasis Solution. Almost everything in here is." He waved one hand absently at the shelves of jars you had yet to go through, your gaze hopping to the larger specimens, which were all fully preserved, instead of being broken down. "What is Stasis Solution used for, again, in regards to potion making."

You knew this one, and not in a 'glowy bits' sort of way. "It's a magical preservative for whole, wet ingredients," you explained. "It keeps them as fresh and potent as the moment they were collected, with minimal degradation, and is entirely reversible. It doesn't interfere with the magical attributes of the ingredient when you do eventually use it in a potion." You tried not to look too hopeful that you'd gotten that right.

Snape quirked a brow, perhaps _mildly_ impressed with you, and he nodded once. "Very good. One point to Hufflepuff." You beamed, but it fell off of your face instantly as you remembered you were supposed to be hating detention or whatever. Snape shook his head, amused, before he continued. "So, I have an eel, which contains some perfectly functional ingredients in its own right. I also have these bacterial colonies, which are incredibly valuable, but are only useable if they're alive. And in order to stay alive, they need a host to feed off of, even if the host is the carcass of a dead fish. So…?" He trailed off, clearly leaving his sentence hanging with the intent of you filling in the blank.

And you thought you understood now, nodding slowly as you turned back to the specimen, running your finger over the glass to play connect-the-dots with the dimly glowing spots adorning the eel's skin. "So, if you broke it down now, the bacterial colonies would no longer have a host, and they would die. And if they died, they would become impotent. So you keep the whole eel, not to preserve the _eel_, but to preserve the colonies."

This time, he actually did look pleased with you, smirking slightly as he nodded once more. "Excellent deduction, Miss Goode. Another point to Hufflepuff." He looked away from you then, turning his attention toward some of the other large jars adorning his shelves. "As you can see, the Glower Eel isn't the only full body specimen I have. There are several ingredients that ought to be housed within the complete cadaver to remain viable. Suriname toad eggs, acromantula venom sacs, mortis bat spleens. You could extract them prematurely and store them separately, but they wouldn't have the same powerful effect as they do when they're fresh. When they're needed, I dissect them and harvest the parts myself, and then I sort whatever common ingredients are left. Teeth, eyes, fur, what have you."

Snape explained this all very casually, just another day in the potions lab, but you experienced an odd sort of delight at the word 'dissect.' Before you could stop yourself, you were leaning forward eagerly to catch his eye. "I dissected a frog in biology class once! Will _we_ get to dissect anything in class?"

Your candor was met with stony silence and an incredulous look, and you mentally kicked yourself for getting overly excited. You probably sounded like a real creep now, getting hyped up at the prospect of cutting up dead animals. But dissecting that frog had been the most interesting thing you'd ever done in the whole of your muggle schooling career. You could only imagine the strange and bizarre things you could discover while studying the innards of magical creatures.

But instead of dismissing you outright, Snape canted his head with a thoughtful tilt. "If you pass your O.W.L.s with an Outstanding and make it into my N.E.W.T. level class, you just might." You perked up at that, ready to launch into another series of questions about what sorts of things you might get to dissect, and what sort of potions you might get to make with them, when he raised a hand to silence you. "Now, I believe you've distracted me from your detention for quite long enough, Miss Goode. And we haven't even discussed your behavior from today."

You cringed. Right. Your _behavior_. You certainly weren't looking forward to this portion of the evening. With a heavy sigh, you managed to lug yourself up from your kneeling position, brushing dust from your knees, and your robe, and your skirt, and god it was just everywhere what was even the point? You tried not to sigh again because you didn't want to sound petulant, but a small huff escaped you anyway as the dust remained stubbornly affixed to your person. Sparing a quick glance at Snape, who stared back at you with an unamused scowl, you winced as you made your way around to the front of his desk. After pulling his chair back into place, he leaned his elbows onto his desk and motioned vaguely with one hand, "Have a seat, Miss Goode."

You spun around awkwardly, before realizing that his absent hand gesture had actually summoned you a chair, which you were pretty sure hadn't been there just a second ago. Sinking into the worn brown leather, you closed your eyes a moment and allowed yourself to relax into its relative comfort. It was certainly a step above 'arse freezing stone dungeon floor' and the soft leather under your fingers felt warm in comparison. You hadn't realized just how tired you were until this very moment, and the temptation to curl up and pass out in this cozy little chair was powerful. But you forced your eyes open, and you forced them to focus on your Professor, and you did your best to school your features into the appearance of contrition. But it was quite futile as you still weren't sorry for anything, and you weren't as good at masking your emotions as Snape was.

And Snape seemed to pick up on that as he laced his fingers together and tucked his clasped hands up under his chin. He regarded you, studying your posture and your warring expression, before asking, "What, exactly, did Mr. DeJarnette say to you this morning?"

You blanched, your face screwing up with apprehension. Was he really going to make you repeat it? "Didn't Professor McGonagall tell you what happened?" you asked hopefully, wanting to avoid having to say the words yourself.

Snape closed his eyes, nodding his assent briefly. "She explained that there had been an altercation. Mr. DeJarnette had apparently said some fairly appalling things, but Professor McGonagall was rather reluctant to repeat them out loud. I need to understand the nature of this incident, so that I may assess it properly. Because of this, I'd like to hear, directly from you, the sort of inexcusable filth that would prompt a Hufflepuff to respond with physical violence."

You frowned at this, unsure of his intentions. Was he trying to determine if your actions had been justified? Or did he think there was a possibility you'd over reacted, that you were just an _overtly_ _sensitive girl_? You bristled at the very notion, and you desperately hoped that was not the case; that he knew you a little better than that. On the other hand, he described whatever had been said as 'inexcusable filth'. Perhaps he was just trying to gauge if what DeJarnette said had actually been deserving of such a visceral response from you. Maybe he was leaning more towards your side. At least he was asking _you_, and not DeJarnette. Sighing through your nose, you clutched your fingers around the arms of the chair as you looked directly at him, your face hardening as you reluctantly explained, "He called my mother a sleazy muggle whore with a taste for good wizard cock."

Snape's entire body stiffened, a brief flicker of utter revulsion shadowing his features, before he let out an exhausted groan and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. You felt this reaction was in your favor, and you relaxed slightly. You were probably still in trouble, but you didn't believe his disgust rested with you.

"Miss Goode," Snape breathed, folding his fingers together again and resting them against his desk. "Allow me to extend my deepest apologies on behalf of Slytherin House. I'll have you know that I personally do not tolerate any sort of vulgar language or prejudiced ideals in my House." It was your turn to arch an incredulous eyebrow, and he narrowed his eyes at your cheekiness. "I did not say I speak on behalf of Mr. DeJarnette himself. In fact I'm quite certain he is just as unrepentant of his actions as you are of your own." He paused, sighing again as he dropped his gaze away from yours, an act that made you sit up a little straighter. It was unusual for Snape not to meet someone else's eyes. He seemed to be considering his words carefully.

"The majority of Slytherin students are the children of ancient pure-blood stock who hold some… outdated beliefs," he explained delicately, but you hardly needed the explanation. You were well aware of this. Everyone was. Still, he pressed on. "You must understand, that no amount of disciplinary action, or even good talking to's on my part are going to do anything to change the mind of children raised with that sort of indoctrination, nor is it my place to try. All I can do is attempt to set a good example, and make sure their positive growth is rewarded and encouraged in an attempt to steer them in the right direction, rather than actively discourage them from going down the wrong path."

This… had you slightly taken aback. It made sense, you guessed. People like DeJarnette were really unlikely to change their minds about their beliefs. Not that people _couldn't_ change, it's just that the chances were slim, unless something drastic took place. And simply telling them what they did or said or thought was wrong would likely make them even more resentful, most especially when teenage boys were involved. You knew a week's worth of detention wasn't going to make him feel bad for insulting your mother. In fact it would probably just strengthen his belief that you were trash, since you'd gotten him into this trouble. It was the part about encouraging their growth that made you dubious, and curious.

"Is that why you favor the Slytherin's the way you do?" you probed, unable to keep the question in your mouth. There was no hope for it. You were just destined to keep falling out of line tonight. You winced, wishing you'd maybe chosen your words more carefully, but it was too late now.

Snape, however, nodded once in confirmation. "There's more to it than that, but that is part of it. Slytherin's, by their own doing, tend to isolate themselves from the rest of the school. Relationships between Slytherin's and other houses are often rare, unless they were perhaps developed previous to attending Hogwarts." He looked pensive, distant, just for a moment, before he shook his head minutely. "I digress. I tend to favor my own house because frankly, they don't have anyone else. Without their parents, they are in need of a stable adult to rely on, which is the role I play as their Head of House. And, as you've learned, I'm not a terribly likable person, and showing them preferential treatment is one of the few ways I can get them to trust me enough to be approachable."

You were surprised that Snape was telling you all of this. You wondered if this was part of the trust that had blossomed between you, or if he was hedging because he knew he'd never be able to guarantee remorse from DeJarnette. Or any of his students for that matter. You were touched that he'd taken the time to explain this to you, as it did sort of make you feel better, in a way. You had a better understanding of why some Slytherin's treated you like dirt, and why they'd never feel bad about it. Perhaps you could stop taking all of their poisonous jabs so personally…

Grinning a little, you shrugged your shoulders in response to his last statement. "I dunno, Professor. I like you just fine." You looked upwards toward the ceiling then, tapping your chin in an exaggerated gesture of deep thought. "Then again, it _did_ take like two and a half years. And lots of pen-based bribery…" You chanced a look back to him, and were met with a withering stare, but instead of shrinking back, you just smiled more broadly.

Snape dropped his head, greasy curtains of hair hiding what you _suspected_ was the smallest of smirks behind them, and you couldn't help but feel pleased. He raised his head moments later, strict features schooled back into place to tell you, "Congratulations Miss Goode, you have just _lost_ the two points you earned for Hufflepuff earlier." His stern tone didn't reach his expression though, so even then, you couldn't bring yourself to feel too badly about it. You snapped your fingers in mock disappointment, and Snape shook his head with exasperated amusement.

"You're also not off the hook for your own behavior today, young lady," Snape warned, and you were finally forced to subdue your joviality. He was right, of course. You had still assaulted another student, even if that student was a chauvinist pig. You fidgeted slightly in your seat, looking down as you pulled your hands from the arms of the chair to rest in your lap, rubbing your thumb over your sore knuckles. You didn't offer anything though. You didn't want to be the first to speak up about it.

"I understand how it feels to be provoked as you were. I also understand the desire for swift retribution." You raised your eyes then, head still bowed, and you noticed that Snape had a rather wounded expression, his brows pressed together, his eyes narrow and glittering. You held his gaze then, because you feel that, yes, he _did_ understand how it felt. Intimately. "However, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that the way you responded was less than ideal. Violence is rarely the solution. All you managed to achieve was punishment for yourself, as well as the increased hostility of the one you attacked. I'm warning you now that DeJarnette is unlikely to simply leave you alone after this. You made an enemy today."

You raised your whole head then, your face pinched with distress. You… Damn it. You sure hadn't thought of _that_. Of course you hadn't. In the heat of the moment all you wanted to do was punch DeJarnette's bloody lights out. Which… is exactly why Snape was looking so disappointed with you right now. Not with DeJarnette. With _you_. Shame wasn't a common feeling for you. You prided yourself in having very little of it, in fact. But now you could feel it creeping up your neck, hot and prickly, like a sunburn. You were no better than DeJarnette. In fact you were probably a little worse. Because Snape thought you should have known better. And he was right.

And it also sounded like he was speaking from experience.

Your gaze dropped back down to your hands, your remorse plain on your face. Maybe you weren't sorry for what you'd done. But you did feel sorry for somehow letting Snape down. And you were determined to never do it again. So you'd made an enemy. Big deal. From this point forward you would control yourself. Not rise to the bait. Not react with heat and fury. You could do that, because it was obvious to you now that that would hurt DeJarnette more than your fists.

"I'm sorry, sir," you whispered, and you really, desperately hoped that he knew what you were sorry for, without you having to spell it out. You raised your head once again, and you could feel his cold eyes bore into yours like black beetles scuttling through earth. It was hypnotic. And painful. Your breath caught in your chest then, as you got the distinct impression that he could read every nuance of what you were feeling just then. It almost felt like an intrusion, and you were forced to rip your eyes away from his, glancing at the jars around the room. At something else. At _anything_ else, but that burning gaze.

"I know you are, Miss Goode," Snape said quietly, and when you chanced a look back, his eyes were turned down towards his desk, and you were able to breathe again. "I believe that's enough for tonight. Head back to your dormitory. I expect to see you back here again tomorrow after dinner."

Shifting awkwardly in your seat, you knew that the conversation had come to a natural end, but you felt like you needed to say something more. You stood, taking your time to smooth down you skirt and robes, searching the office desperately for something. Anything…

"Thank you, Professor," you said suddenly, your eyes trained on the Glower Eel on the shelf behind Snape's desk. As he lifted his head to meet your eye with a questioning look, you offered a small smile. "For… for the lesson. On… the eel…"

Snape's gaze was so piercing, so intense, you could feel those scuttly little beetle legs on the back of your skull, but you didn't look away this time. You weren't thanking him for the lesson on the eel. Or, well… not _just_ the lesson on the eel. And somehow he knew that. And you felt your breath hitch again as he gave you a small nod of understanding. "Of course, Miss Goode. You're a bright girl. I have the utmost confidence that you'll utilize what you've learned here tonight."

You felt your cheeks flush once again, but this time it was with relief. He wasn't disappointed. Not any more at least. You'd prove it to him. Just like you'd proven your prowess in Potions, so too would you prove that you had self-control beyond your barbaric display this morning. You nodded in response, a quiet assurance that you would in fact do just that, before turning your back to him and walking towards the door. You hesitated on the dark edge of the threshold, muttering a quiet "Goodnight, Professor," before you stepped out into the darkened Potions classroom.

You were shadowed by an equally quiet "Goodnight, Miss Goode," before shutting the office door behind you.


	4. Chapter 4 - To the Moon

Homesickness was one of the most difficult things you dealt with while attending Hogwarts. You understood the plight of some of the other children, to whom Hogwarts felt like home more than their actual homes ever did. But for you, the long stretches away from the small flat you grew up in with your mother, with its comforting haze of incense smoke and the rickety book shelves full of vinyl records, were utterly depressing. You loved Hogwarts, truly you did, but it was winter and spring breaks that kept you sane. And in between holidays, you had the kitchens.

You had been told about the entrance to the kitchens quite early on in your time at Hogwarts, as the Hufflepuff common room was literally down the hall from it. Many a Saturday night you had snuck out with your dorm-mates to nick leftover sweets for your weekly gossip- uh, study sessions. But it wasn't until about your third year that you started sneaking to the kitchens on your own. You shared many interests and pastimes with your mother. She encouraged your love for art by framing nearly every piece you'd ever given her, including crayon scribbles you'd made as a baby. She cultivated your passion for music by sharing her own turntable, letting you explore whatever genres you fancied, though you typically had the same tastes. And she'd nurtured your fascination with plants and nature through numerous little garden boxes hanging from every window of your flat. But nothing made you feel more at home than when you cooked together, and cooking brought you the greatest sense of comfort.

The first time you'd crept off to the kitchens with the intention of cooking something for yourself, the house elves had been irate. They couldn't understand why you would want to make something, heavens forbid, _the muggle way_, when you could just give them the recipe and they'd make it for you faster than you could snap your fingers. It took a great deal of clever word manipulation on your part to assure them that the best way they could serve you was simply by showing you where the ingredients were stored. You had eventually come to a consensus that they would allow you to cook for yourself, _if_ they were allowed to clean up after you. As if you were really going to argue with _that_ ultimatum.

Presently in your fourth year, Christmas break was fast approaching, and you were sustained by the fact that you'd be hopping on the Hogwarts Express in a scant week to head home for the rest of the year. Most of your friends were going home as well, and you'd all agreed to exchange gifts before school let out for the holidays, because the best part about giving gifts was seeing the recipients face when they opened them, right? But for you, this heartwarming idea had caused a great deal of panic. Because you didn't _have_ any gifts to exchange. You'd been appallingly broke during the last Hogsmeade trip, and while you'd watched your friends return to their dorms carting large shopping bags from Honeydukes and Zonko's, you had returned emptyhanded. It seemed absolutely disgraceful to accept their gifts without having anything to give in return.

And so, your options quiet limited, you found yourself in the kitchens on a school night, wrist deep in crescent cake dough, your mothers handwritten recipe card floating magically above the sheet pan you were loading up with hand-crafted pastries. There were already two sheets of the completed cakes cooling on one of the long, narrow work tables, the little moon shaped treats looking perfectly golden and delicious, if you did say so yourself. With another batch still in the oven, everything smelled like toasted almonds and warm butter. You had set up your portable wizarding wireless on the counter at your elbow, the volume turned down low enough so as not to disturb the sleeping elves, but loud enough that you could enjoy the music being broadcast. After a lot of finessing, you'd charmed its range and frequency to pick up a few muggle radio stations, and you had been utterly delighted with the evening's selection; they were playing the entirety of Queen's last album, and you were anticipating the dramatic final track off of 'A Kind of Magic' any minute now. All of your senses were occupied with the fond nostalgia of home.

So of course, you never even heard him come in.

The final batch of crescent cakes were prepared and waiting on their pan. Now, all that was left to do was wait for the tray in the oven to come out so you could put the last tray in. And once it was, you could start packing up the cooled cakes into festive little paper bundles to exchange with your friends. A flawless plan if you'd ever had one! Wiping your hands with a dish towel, you were whisper-belting the opening lines of 'Princes of the Universe' when you turned towards the sink, but were stopped mid-rotation as your shoulder collided directly with something solid, black, and unyielding.

The first thing you did was scream, the startled sound tearing itself from your _soul_ as you stumbled back against the work table, clutching the butter-smeared rag to your chest in an attempt to prevent your heart from leaping out of your rib cage. The second thing you did was flush, heat and dread all burning their way up from your neck to the top of your head with creeping humiliation. And the final thing you did was groan, burying your face in the dish towel to hide your shame from the thoroughly amused smirk of Professor Snape.

You were in several different flavors of trouble. You had never been caught while illicitly using the kitchens. _Never_! So it had never _occurred_ to you just how many school rules you were breaking all at once. Out of dorm, after hours, in a restricted part of the castle, using school utilities you had no business using. You'd be lucky if you weren't serving detention for the rest of the school year. But then again… your heart gave a curious flutter. Detention with Snape had never been _that_ bad.

"It's uncanny how well sound carries through the halls at night," Snape mused, almost conversationally as he took a step backward to give you room to breathe. "Imagine my surprise upon hearing rock music of all things drifting down the corridors as I made my rounds this evening." His eyes shifted past you to the wizarding wireless humming innocuously on the work table, Brian May's growling guitar solo filling the silence as 'Princes of The Universe' neared its conclusion. "How did you get that thing to pick up Muggle stations, anyway?"

Snape's casual curiosity was both oddly welcome and highly concerning. Your heart was pounding in your throat, and you were attempting to wrap your head around the fact that you hadn't yet been scolded. Best not to stare a gift horse in the mouth. You fumbled for an explanation, extricating your face from the towel, but continuing to twist the cloth in your hands behind your back. Would tampering with wizard tech be another broken rule? You knew making muggle things magic was frowned upon; was making magic things mundane just as bad?

"What, uh…" you swallowed thickly, following his eyes to your wireless, which you subtly moved towards, as if attempting to block its soundwaves from reaching Snape's ears. "What makes you think it's a Muggle station?" you asked innocently, meeting his eye only long enough to catch his flawless impassivity. Squaring up your shoulders with a false sense of confidence, you pressed on against your better judgement, stating quite matter-of-factly "Well, _I'm_ not entirely convinced that Freddie Mercury _isn't_ a wizard."

Oh, how you wished you could shove those words back down your throat. What an utterly ludicrous thing to say. And yet, all Snape did was raise both eyebrows, as if mildly intrigued by your theory. He actually appeared to be considering it, folding his arms across his narrow chest before rebounding, "Mercury, you think? Not David Bowie? I've always had my suspicions."

You balked, stunned by both his frankness and your good fortune at managing to steer the conversation away from how _utterly freaking screwed_ you were. Yet you couldn't prevent the apprehensive giggle from spilling out of you. "_Bowie_?" you asked, scandalized. "Bowie just… _just_ starred in a film that proves there isn't a magical bone in his body." You couldn't believe you were bantering about this. With Snape. Were you dreaming? Was the heat of the kitchen making you delirious? "If he were a wizard he would know that goblins have no business being that attractive. Not even the king of them."

Snape's eyes shifted away from you then, one of his hands lifting to pinch his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger, as if deeply analyzing this information against his own evidence towards the contrary. Gee. He really _did_ have his suspicions. You were just lighting up with the prospect of _actually_ investing in this conversation, when he seemed to catch himself. Brows pressed together, he returned his narrowed gaze back to you, pulling his hand away from his mouth to point an accusatory finger in your direction. "I'm not here to discuss the magical merits of rock stars with you," he stated firmly, and you had to wonder if this declaration was for you, or for himself.

"Aren't you? I'd much prefer it if you were," you quipped, plowing ahead with abandon. You didn't want to be resigned to your fate just yet. Besides, you were interested in his magical Bowie concept. If you could only keep him talking…

But it appeared that your luck had run out. Leveling you with a steely glare, the beginning of yet another reprimand finally came. "What exactly are you doing in here, Miss Goode?" he questioned finally, sharp eyes flitting around to the section of work table you had sequestered for yourself.

Self-preservation apparently being the last thing on your mind, you arched a brow and surveyed your surroundings along with him. "Baking?" you offered numbly. At that moment, a rather obnoxious bell went off, an hourglass shaped timer rattling on the counter with the ferocity of its ringing. After silencing it with a flick of your wand, you abandoned your post at the table in order to open the oven, the immediate area suddenly filling with the sweet aroma of almonds. "I… thought that much was obvious, sir," you stated innocently, peering over your shoulder at Snape.

Who appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with your sass. "Indeed, I _had_ gathered that much," he spat, his countenance darkening as he observed your apparent disregard for his authority. "Allow me to rephrase the question. Why are you baking four dozen crescent cakes in the middle of the night on a Thursday?"

Your shoulders stiffened at that. Yes, that was a considerably more specific question, and the icy quality of his voice seemed to finally sober you up. This was not the time for wit. You were in trouble, and he was all too happy to remind you of that fact with his tone alone. Working quickly, you cast a charm to levitate the hot tray out of the oven and onto the table, before shutting the oven door to preserve the heat. You weren't sure if your entire project was about to be scrapped, so it seemed presumptuous to attempt to add the new tray to the oven just yet. Leaning your hip against the warm oven door, you considered your options. However, the only viable one was simply to tell the truth.

"The holidays," you explained softly, rolling your wand between your hands in a nervous gesture that had gotten you scolded by Professor Flitwick on more than one occasion. "My friends, they want to exchange gifts tomorrow, before we all leave for break. And I couldn't affor-…" you wince, averting your gaze to the floor. "I mean, I just didn't have the chance to buy anything during the last Hogsmeade trip. So I thought… I just… thought…" You felt like a first year again, having to explain yourself for your mundane muggle compromises. Indeed, this whole situation felt remarkably similar to your first meaningful interaction with your Potions Professor. Only this time you really _were_ breaking rules, which greatly reduced your chances of getting away unscathed.

Snape spared you from having to tumble over your own words for much longer. "While I rather doubt you did much _thinking _at all, you are clearly quite… thoughtful, Miss Goode." You ceased your fidgeting with your wand, slipping it into your shirtsleeve as your eyes snapped back to his with a surge of optimism. Which must have been evident on your face, as he responded with a long suffering sigh. "How much longer do you think you'll be?"

Not wanting to miss your opportunity, you burst into action, throwing open the oven door before hastily taking up the last tray of cakes. "Thirty minutes?" you suggested honestly, sliding the pan into the oven before nudging the door closed with your hip. Taking up the magically attuned timer, you flipped the hourglass over twice, watching one end fill with sand which began its steady downpour once you set it back on the table. "They take about twenty minutes to bake. In the meantime I was going to start wrapping up the cooled ones. The house elves insist on cleaning up for me so, really, I shouldn't be too long…" You turned back to him then, your hands clasped anxiously against your midsection, waiting to see if this plan was acceptable to him.

Snape was looking you over rather critically, eyes shifting from your writhing hands, to your hope filled eyes, to the work table littered with the evidence of your labor. "You shall clean this mess yourself, without magic, and without aide from the house elves." You blinked uncertainly, looking to the small pile of bowls, spatulas, spoons and cups you had accumulated, and back to him again. Waving his hand dismissively, he explained, "Consider it your punishment for being out after hours."

He… was letting you off easy. _Way_ easy. Your chest suddenly felt tight, swelling with a deep appreciation you didn't know how to express. He could have demanded you trash everything and sent you back to bed empty handed. Would have done so with a malicious grin to anyone else, you were certain, but he was allowing you to finish your work. You could have kissed him. But instead you nodded your head woodenly with acceptance, before gathering up your baking equipment, stacking and slotting bowls and cups into each before placing them into the nearest sink, submerging them in hot soapy water to soak. Nodding once he saw you acquiescing to his terms, he stepped to the work table, pulling out one of the high wooden stools, before perching himself upon it with one knee crossed over the other.

"You'll… be staying then?" you asked, drying your hands on a dish towel before procuring a small roll of baking parchment and a ball of butchers twine from one of the many cabinets. It took a great deal of concentration, as frankly you were rubbish at this sort of thing, but with a bit of charm work you managed to give the paper a rather pleasant green and red tartan pattern. You then tried to turn the twine gold, but only ended up making it a sort of dull bronze. You sighed. It would have to do.

"Well, someone needs to oversee your… detention," Snape explained, surveying your poor spell work, but keeping any commentary on it to himself. "As well as make sure you get back to your dormitory in a _timely_ fashion." He glanced then to the hourglass, as if gauging how much longer he would be stuck here. You internally groaned at that. He may have let you off the hook with a slap on the wrist, but he was certain to continue to remind you that you were taking up a great deal of his time. In the middle of the night.

"Yes, sir," you answered, hoping your voice contained the proper amount of remorse. Working quickly, you rolled out a length of your lovely new wrapping paper, and then debated whether or not to use magic to directly cut it, or if you should conjure up a pair of scissors. Deciding your transfiguration skills were even more abysmal than your charms, you traced the tip of your wand across the paper, relishing the satisfying slicing sound as you created several neat little squares. You did the same on several lengths of bronze twine, before you finally had all you would need to begin the wrapping. Pulling over one of the pans of cooled cakes, you plucked off two of the little cookies, before you were overcome by a sudden realization.

"How did you know these were called 'Crescent Cakes'?" you asked abruptly, turning your attention to your professor, who appeared to have been silently criticizing your magical abilities for the past several minutes. His face remained stony but for the arch of a single brow, which told you that the answer should have been obvious.

"You mean besides that they are, in fact, cakes shaped like crescents?" Snape deadpanned, speaking as though you were a very slow first year.

"I mean it! This is…" you peered around frantically, setting the cakes down on the wrapping paper before you snatched the recipe card out of the air from where it had been hovering. "This is my mother's recipe! I've been making these since I was like, four! They could have been called anything, but you guessed it exactly."

Holding the card out to him, Snape glanced from the butter stained page, to your very serious face, and back, before seizing it from your hands. He stared down at the list of ingredients contemplatively, his impassive expression softening into something closer to curiosity. "Your mother?" he asked quietly, and at your nod, persisted. "And she is… how did you describe it… the 'Muggle half of your equation'?"

Your face reddened at that. You were immediately on edge, uncertain as to why Snape was bringing that particular detail up. You crossed your arms over your chest defensively, your brows creasing as you nodded again. "Yes, she is," you answered, your voice firm with warning. You were sure he remembered what happened the _last_ time a Slytherin had said anything disparaging towards your mother.

Snape had caught on to your discomfort easily though, for his answer came with a considerably softer tone. "I only ask, Miss Goode, because this is a very old witch's recipe," he held the page back out to you, and your tension seemed to melt away at this declaration. "It's been around for decades, at least. My own…" he hesitated, watching your hands as you carefully took the card back from him. Eyes shifting away then, he carried on, though his voice seemed strained. "My own mother would make them… From time to time."

Holding the card to your chest, you were suddenly breathless from the weight of this confession. Teachers seemed to have this secretiveness about them, the sort of mystique that made you forget that they were… you know, _people_, with lives and families outside of these stone walls. It never came up. With very little exception, you knew virtually nothing about the personal lives of your professors. It wasn't the fact that Snape _had_ a mom, because of course he did; everyone did. But it was the knowledge that he was willing to speak about her, however briefly, with you. He'd hesitated before revealing this small parallel between your childhoods, yet he'd told you nonetheless. Overwhelmed with emotion you couldn't quite define, you peered down at the recipe in your hands. You didn't want to ruin this moment, to break the delicate thread that now connected you. You didn't want to make him regret sharing this.

"An old witch's recipe?" you repeated, your voice unusually thick, though you ignored it, hoping Snape would too. Placing the recipe reverently back on the counter top, you got back to the task at hand, which was folding the wrapping paper into neat little bundles around the cakes. You worked precisely, but efficiently, which gave you the perfect excuse not to meet his eyes. "As in, _real_ witches have been making these for years? Mum's going to be _thrilled_ to hear that."

If Snape had picked up on the odd tension in your voice, he was kind enough to ignore it. "Indeed. I honestly thought you had procured it from the library." Leaning over with his arms crossed, he raked his eyes over the card once again. "It's a near replica of the olden recipes, though it seems your mother added sugar, which I cannot fault her for. They might be traditional but they usually taste like sawdust." He eyed the tray of cakes then, with the same sort of intensity he might give one of your Potions assignments. "Any idea where _she_ got it from?"

Tying off the ribbon of the first packet, you set it aside on the countertop before considering his question. You weren't entirely certain where your mother had gotten the recipe from, as they had been 'family tradition' since you were very small. But if they were customarily witchy, and weren't really a common muggle recipe… you had a pretty good idea how she'd gotten it. "Well, my mother, she's…" You paused a moment, trying to think of the best way to describe her. If Snape had any muggle upbringing, as you heavily suspected, then you hoped he would understand. "She's always been one of those… 'Age of Aquarius' types?"

This elicited a reaction that caught you more off guard than anything else had this evening; Snape laughed. It was more of a bark, a sharp burst of rusty sound, but it was undeniably a _laugh_. And it wasn't entirely derisive either; it sounded suspiciously like mirth. You were still not entirely sure that you _weren't_ delirious but… that smile was a good look for him. You couldn't contain your own anxious giggle then, though your shoulders drooped with relief. "Oh good! You get my meaning then?"

"Oh, certainly," Snape snorted, shaking his head with amusement. He finally uncrossed his arms then, instead leaning an elbow against the work table. It appeared that he was finally opening up a little. "I do believe the New Forest Coven is _still_ in trouble with the Ministry for the whole Gerald Gardner debacle." At your bemused expression, he rolled his eyes slightly, but explained without pretense. "Gardner was a muggle who had been 'initiated' into a coven of real witches, probably for a good laugh at his expense. He went on to publish a few books on 'magic and witchcraft', used what he'd learned from their customs and beliefs to form his own type of paganism, and now he's called 'The Father of Wicca'. The Ministry didn't think much of it when they first found out; figured no one was going to believe him anyway. But now it's almost 30 years later, Gardner is dead, and the neopagan phenomena is too big for even the Office of Misinformation to try and tackle. The result being muggles dancing around in the moonlight and practicing divination and… well. Getting their hands on old witch's recipes and having no idea what they've really got."

You were absolutely dumbstruck. All those years of abiding your mother's eclectic beliefs, sometimes thinking she was off her gourd. You thought back to the little pouch of crystals and patchouli oil that still hung from your school bag, and you couldn't help but wonder… "There's stock in it then? The basis of all that stuff actually comes from something _real_?"

"It's real for us," Snape shrugged, offhandedly leaning over and nicking one of the cakes from the sheet pan. You made no move to stop him. "_If_ a bit outdated. For muggles, they made a religion out of something which does not belong to them, something they could never truly understand." This was said with such bitterness, that you actually felt a little guilty about your mother's participation in it. "Even if they could, it doesn't actually do anything for them, besides provide false hope… or peace of mind, I suppose." He snapped the little cookie in half. "On the other hand, more muggles are observing Sabbats and Esbats than most wizards do today. Modern magic folk might celebrate Samhain or Yule, but the other days have gone to the wayside. Muggles are keeping our traditions better than we are." He popped half of the crescent into his mouth, chewing slowly as he swiped a crumb from the corner of his lip, and his eyelashes practically fluttered. "Dear _god_, how much butter did you put in these things?"

You smiled sincerely at that; nothing warmed you quite like seeing someone else enjoy your cooking. "Apparently, a very traditional amount," you teased, proceeding on to your next parcel of cakes. He narrowed his eyes coolly at your keen display of sassiness once again, but kept silent as he finished the next bit of cake. Conversation dissolved into comfortable silence as you continued your wrapping, and Snape watched on with dull interest. He'd given you a lot to ponder, as he often did, and you found yourself looking forward to your visit home even more. The mountain of books your mother had on crystals and astrology and 'magik' was looking far more interesting than it ever had in your young life.

Once the last tray was taken out of the oven, you decided to wash the dishes while the cakes cooled. Sleeves rolled up to your elbows, you made quick work of the pile of bowls and cups, as cleaning things the muggle way was a typical chore for you. Several house elves watched on anxiously from their cupboards, and you heard mutterings about how unfair the Master of Potions was being. You got the impression that they were probably going to re-wash all of this stuff anyway, so you thought it practical not to agonize over them. Though you made a good show of scrubbing and rinsing and drying while Snape's eyes were on your back.

"Are these… anisette?" You jumped slightly at the abrupt question, silence suddenly broken by Snape's ever smooth baritone. Looking over your shoulder as you dried the assortment of spatulas and knives, you saw that he'd taken another cake, this one from the last batch fresh from the oven. Your cheeks tinted at this.

"Star anise," you corrected, setting the last of the utensils onto the counter top. (_Surely he'd allow the elves to put everything away? They were the only ones who knew where all this stuff went, after all_.) Pulling your sleeves back down and fiddling with the buttons on your cuffs, you joined him next to the work table. "Don't think the elves would let me have anisette, even if they had it." You took up one of the cakes, finally allowing yourself to partake in your own handiwork as you bit off one of the points.

He was regarding you with another of his impassive looks, but ultimately joined you in the indulgence. You waited with bated breath for his reaction, but he simply rolled his eyes at your eager face. "The rest were almond. Anise isn't a very popular flavor these days," he stated pointedly, though it was clear to you that he enjoyed them, despite his best efforts.

Shrugging a little, you placed four of the small cakes onto one of the squares of wrapping paper you had left. "No, it isn't. It's definitely an… acquired taste. But it's certainly _my_ favorite," you explained fondly, slipping a second square of paper on top of the cakes. You folded the edges into a much larger bundle to contain the greater number of pastries, before trying two lengths of twine together to finish securing the package. "These were for my… private stash, anyway," you admitted sheepishly, holding up the parcel by its string and presenting it to your professor.

Snape's face was unreadable as his eyes flickered from yours, to the gift you were offering him. He didn't make a move. You'd rather hoped you were beyond this nonsense. Why couldn't the man simply accept something from you without questioning your sincerity? Would he ever actually trust you? With an exasperated sigh, you set the package on the table, making sure they were very close to his elbow so that your intentions were clear. Take them or leave them.

After storing away your wizarding wireless and baking timer, you began loading up your messenger bag with the bundles of cakes you'd made, before tossing the rest of the anise cookies into a small tin that you'd brought along in anticipation of replenishing your personal hoard. That done, you placed the sheet pan into the nearest sink, merely running water over it, as the House Elves had, indeed, already started re-washing all of your equipment again. Leaving three little packages on the countertop for said elves, you turned to find the stool Snape had previously occupied was now empty. He was already waiting by the door out of the kitchen, his arms crossed impatiently over his chest.

"Well?" he called out to you, and you straightened up a bit. Giving the kitchen a final onceover to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything, you noticed that the work table was empty. Nothing left on it at all.

"Coming," you answered, biting your bottom lip to quash your smile.

An acquired taste, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5 - Just a Dream

The Hogwarts greenhouses were typically a source of great comfort to you. They were always so bright and warm, filled with everything you loved most in the world; nature, beauty, art, science. If you had any one dream for the future, it was that you might one day live in a place where you could have a real garden of your own. You had made due with window boxes in the city, but they were only good for flowers and common cooking herbs. You certainly wouldn't be able to plant any magical flora in those, and while Potions was your favorite subject, Herbology was a very close second. The sketchbook your mother had given you in your first year was brimming with drawings of all the new plants and fungi you'd discovered in your time here at Hogwarts, their detail and precision sharpening with each subsequent year. Botanical illustrations had always been your forte, even when you were small and the best you could manage was a crayon daisy.

But no amount of sunlight or warmth was enough to assuage your anxiety at this moment. Thinking about your future in terms of whether you wanted a greenhouse or a traditional garden was all well and good. It was thinking about what you were going to potentially do for the rest of your life that was filling you with existential dread. Seated at one of the long greenhouse tables outside of Professor Sprout's office, you stared numbly at the brightly colored pamphlets you'd collected from the common room. You'd only picked up three; one from Saint Mungo's, detailing all the ways you weren't cut out to be a Healer, and two from a couple of potions shops in Diagon Alley, both of which made your skin crawl with the prospect of working in _retail_. It seemed your options were limited. And that was terrifying you.

What if you were about to spend seven years of your life attending a school for magic, and in the end you weren't qualified for anything? It's not like you could go back to the Muggle world. Sure, you were receiving the finest magical education in the world but it wasn't like you could put _that_ on a CV. And now that you had been in _this_ world, you didn't think you could ever leave it. Which left you with what? Being a 'normal' person with a normal job? It sounded utterly dull. It wasn't that you thought you were extraordinary, deserving of a fascinating life full of adventure. You just wanted to do something _meaningful_. You sighed as you shuffled around the leaflets again. Alas, wasn't that the dream of _every_ stupid 16 year old? Wanting to change the world?

Your mother's life before you'd been born had been transient; traveling the country, following bands, sleeping on couches and in the backseats of cars. Her exploits had been financed by her own parents, your grandparents, whom you'd never met, as they'd dropped your mother on her arse the second they found out she was pregnant. It wasn't until you had come along that your mother had settled down, working odd jobs until finally finding lasting employment at a local pub. You knew that she adored her position, having been promoted from waitress to bartender before you'd gotten your Hogwarts letter. She collected stories from patrons during the late nights, sometimes sharing slightly censored versions of them with you over breakfast when you were much younger. She told you she was happy, and you knew that she was. But you always felt that you had put an end to her real dreams. She would never admit that, probably didn't even think it. But still… more than anything, you wanted to make that up to her.

Behind you, the door to Professor Sprout's office suddenly opened, and you were pulled from your reverie as Lawrence Hollingsworth emerged, looking rather dazed and overwhelmed, that was, until he spotted you. You squinted curiously at him, and he grinned lopsidedly back, before casually making his way over. He plopped himself onto the bench beside you, facing the opposite direction as he leaned his back against the table.

"Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?" Lawrence asked, his smile showing every one of his gleaming white teeth as he nudged his shoulder playfully against yours. You rolled your eyes at his teasing (_he _knew_ how anxious you were about this_), before shoving him back a little harder in return, but he only chuckled good-naturedly.

"Oh yeah, _really_ looking forward to it," you said with mock enthusiasm, before slumping glumly with your elbows on the table and your chin in your hands. "Is it bad?"

"What, Career Advice? Pleeease." Lawrence waved his hand dismissively. "It's not like it's a test. And I've told you, you don't have to commit to whatever you pick in there. Besides, it's Professor Sprout. How bad could it be?"

You nodded your assent to that. He had a point. It was the same point he'd been making for like a week since the Career Advice announcements had been posted in the common room, but it still hadn't stuck. You were grateful he was here to remind you now, though. He'd been quite supportive since you'd confessed your fears about your future to him, and he'd done his best to soothe you by pointing out the flaws in your logic. Lawrence was always very kindhearted, not just to you, but to everyone, in and out of your own house; there was a reason he was made Prefect this year. As an added bonus, he was also very good looking; dark skin, neatly cropped hair, athletic build from his position as Beater on the Quidditch team. A real Hufflepuff Heartthrob.

He was also entirely smitten with you.

It had all started at the beginning of the term. O.W.L.'s looming in the distance, Lawrence had actually approached you on the train in hopes of securing the position as your Potion's partner for the coming year. He'd explained that his grades had been miserably low in the subject, but his ambitions to follow in his father's footsteps as an Auror meant he needed to get high marks on his O.W.L.'s. When you'd informed him that Snape wouldn't accept anything less than an Outstanding, the boy had literally thrown himself on the ground to beg for your help. You hastily agreed, just to get him to stand back up again, before explaining that you weren't going to carry him. If he wanted to get better, he'd have to put in the work. And surprisingly enough, he'd agreed. As long as you guided, he would follow.

And he turned out to be a very receptive pupil. You'd tentatively taken on the role as tutor, aiding him with his homework, helping him review for tests, explaining that if he just stopped studying from the damn text book and actually took down Professor Snape's notes… Ah, but alas. Lawrence, like many, _many_ other students, suffered from Snape Intimidation Syndrome. Outside of the classroom, Lawrence understood the material well enough. But put him down in the dungeons, in the front row of the classroom, with the Potions Master looming before him, and he became a regular butterfingers. Since becoming your in-class partner, however, he'd developed a steadier hand. Snape tended to avoid giving _you_ any guff, and had started laying off of Lawrence by association. You'd felt an immense swell of pride when Lawrence had shown you his first ever perfect marks on a Potions assignment. It had also been the first time he kissed you.

Granted, it had also been the last time. Lawrence had apologized profusely, explaining he'd just been overwhelmed, with uh, gratitude, and you had easily laughed it off, as it hadn't really bothered you. It wasn't the first time you'd kissed a boy, and surely wouldn't be the last, but there had been a notable shift between the two of you since then. It seemed that the contact had awoken some deep comprehension within Lawrence, like maybe he finally realized that he wanted to be more than just friends with you. The problem was, he hadn't actually asked you out yet. There had been a radical increase in casual touches, in distracted conversations when you were supposed to be studying, in requests to spend time together outside of academics. And while you had to admit, the attention was nice (_you'd even gotten hate mail from some other girl! It had been a very exciting moment for you_), the fact remained that he still hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend.

And honestly, you didn't know how you would answer if he did. Some of your dorm mates had insisted you strike while the iron was hot, to just ask him out yourself. And you _had_ considered it, but something was stopping you. Just as he couldn't come to a decision about it, neither could you. It wasn't that you didn't like him. Quite the contrary, he'd grown to be one of your dearest friends. And there was no denying that he was a hell of a catch; smart, kind, funny, attractive. He seemed to have what he wanted in life already planned out, his goals set in stone. But you were still floundering to find your own. As hard as you tried to envision it, you weren't sure if you could see your future tied to his. Then again, Trelawney liked to remind you that your third eye was very nearsighted.

"Earth to Gwen," Lawrence said suddenly, waving a hand in front of your eyes to try and get you out of your trance. You blinked stupidly, turning your head slowly to face him, and he smiled sympathetically in return. With casual ease, he turned toward you and rubbed a hand in slow circles against your back, a soothing gesture that made you relax slightly. "You're really twisted up about this, huh?" he asked quietly, and you felt your cheeks flush with sudden heat. Did he know you were thinking about…?

Oh! No, he meant the career advice. Of course. You blushed even darker and looked down at the table again, shuffling around the meager selection of pamphlets. "I guess I am. I hope Professor Spout can help me figure this stuff out. There has to be more I can do with potions than just… shop work or healing." You huffed and tossed them back down, watching them scatter across the table.

Lawrence had stopped stroking, though his hand remained a warm, heavy weight on the small of your back. It sent a peculiar wave of… _something_ through you, and when you turned to meet his eyes again, he was already looking directly into yours. He'd moved closer, his face mere inches away, and it caught you off guard, your breath hitching in your throat. You saw his gaze flicker down to your mouth, before he took a deep breath. "Look, Gwen, are you doing anything toni-"

"Miss Goode?"

You both sprang apart from each other as Professor Sprout called your name, Lawrence scrambling to his feet quickly as you made a show of collecting the booklets you had carelessly tossed away. Sprout was standing in the doorway of her office, her hands on her hips with a suspicious smile on her round face. "Mister Hollingsworth, I think you ought to be getting back to class, don't you?"

Lawrence's own cheeks reddened, and he nodded in agreement, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am." He glanced your way as you finally stood, and offered you another encouraging grin, along with a double thumbs up. "I'll see you later, yeah?" he asked, and you couldn't miss the note of hope in his voice. It made your heart ache, and you feared it wasn't entirely in a good way.

"Yeah, of course," you replied, and returned his thumbs up, though not quite as enthusiastically. With a wave to you, and a polite nod to Professor Sprout, Lawrence exited the greenhouse. You watched his progress a little ways through the glass, before turning back to Sprout, who was still regarding you with that knowing smile, and it only made your face grow hotter. "_What?_" you demanded, though your voice had risen an octave.

"Oh, nothing!" Professor Sprout chuckled, betraying the fact that it was clearly _something_. "Ah, just young love," she admitted airily, stepping aside to allow you entry into her office, but you were rooted to the spot in utter mortification. At your hesitation, Sprout rolled her eyes, though the grin on her face did not falter. "Don't give me that look, Miss Goode. You two have been dancing around each other since the start of term. You can't think it was only obvious to other students?"

You snapped your mouth shut, not having realized it was hanging open. If any more blood rushed to your face, you feared you might swoon. It already felt prickly and uncomfortable, like the rest of you. "So, what? Are we just staffroom gossip for you?" you asked hotly, though there wasn't much malice behind it; just quiet resignation as you made your way into Sprout's office.

She shut the door behind you as you settled into one of the stiff backed wooden chairs that had been brought in. Her office was indistinguishable from the rest of the greenhouse, filled as it was with hanging vines and towering bushes. The only thing that gave away the room's true nature was the tiny wooden desk placed in the center, and some ancient looking filing cabinets that took up the back wall. Settling down behind said desk, Sprout regarded you thoughtfully.

"You're much more than that, Gwendolyn. You know that I and several of your other professors think very highly of you," she assured, and that made you relax a little. She only used first names when she'd gone into mom-mode. Professor Spout was the sort of woman you wished you'd had as a grandmother. Since the very moment you'd been sorted into her house, she'd made it clear to you, as well as to every single one of her students, that you were wanted, valued, and appreciated in Hufflepuff. The house often got a bad rap, accused of being made up of 'leftovers' who couldn't get into Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Slytherin. Sprout, on the other hand, held the opinion that Hufflepuff possessed attributes from all three of the other houses, but with vastly differing motivations. You were brave, without being reckless. Intelligent, without being hypercritical. Ambitious, without being selfish. She saw the very best in you, and reminded you of it as often as she could.

"I'm sorry, Professor," you sighed sullenly, sliding your bag off of your shoulder and letting it flop onto the dirt floor beside you. You knew you could talk to her about this, about your warring emotions over Lawrence, but you held you tongue. That's not what this meeting was supposed to be for. "I'm just… feeling a little lost," you admitted, fidgeting with the pamphlets, but they were getting rumpled and damp from being clenched in your clammy hands.

"I can tell," Sprout affirmed, her voice still kind and cajoling. "I see you picked up some occupational literature. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind. Have you thought of what you might like to do once you've left Hogwarts?"

Inexplicably, your throat tightened up with barely restrained emotion. You were actually on the verge of tears. Because you _had_ thought of what you'd like to do after leaving Hogwarts, but you had no idea if any of your ideas made for a viable living. As usual, you felt like you knew absolutely nothing about the wizarding world. How did _anyone_ make a living in it? The only adults you knew within this world were shop keepers, professors, or government workers. But none of those offered what you felt like you needed, your deep seeded desire to do something important. To help people. And the one profession that did seem to offer that was sorely out of your reach.

Clearing your throat, your voice was still tense as you explained, "I thought I might like to be a Healer, or a Mediwitch, but…" You sighed and shrugged, isolating the flyer from Saint Mungo's, peeling it open and gazing down at it numbly. "I know I don't have the grades for it. I'll be _lucky_ to get an Acceptable in Charms, and I very well might get a Troll in Transfiguration."

The sound of shuffling paper caused you to look up, and you saw Sprout flipping through a thick folder. With a thrill of dread, you realized it must be your student record. She appeared to be comparing pages, and with a small sigh, she looked up with a tight smile. "Professor McGonagall has indeed left a note here reminding me that she only accepts students who get an Exceeds Expectations on their O.W.L.'s." At the forlorn expression on your face, Sprout flipped the file shut, and leaned her elbows forward onto her desk, clasping her hands together. "Let's approach this differently. Tell me what you _like_ doing. What are you best at, that you _also_ enjoy?"

"Potions," you answer immediately, but smile apologetically before hastily adding, "And Herbology, of course."

Sprout nodded patiently, as if she'd been expecting that response. "Of course, dear. But judging by the way you're strangling those poor pamphlets, you aren't terribly interested in the 'selling for profit' aspect of it?" You looked down at the crumpled papers in your hands, and immediately went about smoothing them out. One was from Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, while the other was from Madam Primpernelle's Beautifying Potions. Both of them made you feel a little nauseous.

"You could say that," you muttered, sighing as you just gave up and leaned over, stuffing all three booklets into your bag and wiping your sweaty palms over your skirt. "But I don't know what else I can _do_ with potions, that doesn't require me to be good at everything else."

Sprout nodded with understanding, and she hummed thoughtfully as she took in your fretful appearance. "I had rather hoped you would jump to say 'Herbology' first," she teased affably, pulling out a piece of parchment and loading up her quill with ink. "Goodness knows you'd be an excellent Herbologist, and you better believe I'm not letting you leave this office without you giving me your word that you'll at least _consider_ a career in it." She was carefully composing a note, her speech stilted as she concentrated on both writing and speaking. "But for now, I'm going to send you to Professor Snape to continue this discussion. I believe he's far more qualified to advise you on potential career paths in potions than I am." She held up the note, re-reading it once before folding it into thirds. "And I'm sure he won't mind. You two are on good terms, yes?"

Now that _really_ made you blush. You coughed into your elbow in an attempt to cover your face, but you couldn't stop yourself. You _had_ to know. "Does _he_ say that?" you asked, hoping you sounded casual, but knowing you sounded hopeful. Why was it that the thought of gaining Snape's approval caused butterflies to burst into your stomach, but thinking about dating _or_ rejecting Lawrence Hollingsworth made you feel like your guts were full of worms?

Sprout smiled that damned perceptive smile again, before gathering up both her note and your school record. "Perhaps not in so many words. But as I said, a great deal of the staff here that have a very high opinion of you, and Professor Snape may or may not be one of them." She winked as she held the folder out to you. "You certainly didn't hear that from _me,_ though."

You scraped your teeth over your bottom lip as you accepted the proffered papers with shaking hands, staring reverently down at your student record. "Is this… I mean, is it usual to send students to another Head of House for this? Doesn't he have his own house to advise?" The last thing you wanted to do was go down into the dungeons, only to be turned away, or worse, accused of taking away valuable time from a Slytherin. Oh god what if you ran into DeJarnette…?

Sprout was looking up at a clock hung haphazardly above the office door. "Professor Snape finished up his meetings yesterday evening, I believe. And as he and I share a free period right about now, I can almost guarantee that you'll catch him in the staffroom, if you hurry." You nearly fell out of your chair in your haste to seize your bag and hurry as instructed, but Sprout caught your eye with a sharp and purposeful look, making you freeze. "Have I got your word about considering Herbology?"

You didn't hesitate. A genuine smile spread over your face as you nodded your agreement. "Of course, Professor," you assured her, rising to your feet more slowly now, hitching your bag over your shoulder. "I promise. I _do_ love Herbology, and if things don't work out with Professor Snape, I'll come right back here to cry about it to you." You were mostly teasing, but you weren't fibbing, either. You'd cried into Sprout's ample bosom over less in your earlier years, and you weren't even ashamed to admit that.

Sprout nodded amiably, finding this compromise perfectly acceptable. Standing from her desk, she made her way around it to you and took one of your hands, patting it fondly as she beamed up at you. "I know you will, dear. I have no doubt you'll find what's right for you, though." Still holding your hand, she walked you towards the door, opening it to find the greenhouse empty; the next student hadn't arrived yet. Leaning close to you, she released your hand and gave your shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "And remember, you can come cry to me if things don't work out with _Lawrence_, either," she added quietly, and you felt the blood run out of your face this time. You looked over to her, astonished and a little affronted, but she merely smiled pacifyingly. "I'm not saying things will go badly! Frankly, I think you two would make a rather charming couple. But I've been a teacher for a very, very long time, Gwendolyn. All I mean is that I'm here for you, no matter what happens."

Nodding slowly, you swallowed the lump in your throat, before giving Professor Sprout a half hug, which she returned, warmly as ever. After the routine goodbyes, followed by a heartfelt wish of good luck, you made your way out of the greenhouse and onto the grounds. You knew Sprout had told you to hurry, but you were suddenly bogged down by the weight of your thoughts. Mostly, you felt _guilty_. Your friends, your head of house, hell, even your own mother had encouraged you to take the next step with Lawrence, because what did you have to lose? And they were right. They were all right. You had no good excuse not to give it a try. Everyone was being so supportive and encouraging. Everyone else thought taking things to the next level was a good idea. Except for you.

You liked him. You really did. And maybe it was because you liked him so much that you were hesitant to go any further. You wanted to stay close with him, but any potential for lasting friendship could be destroyed by heartbreak. Heartbreak sounded _exhausting_, and you weren't going to kid yourself into thinking that falling in love at 16 would lead to anything _but_ heartbreak. Maybe you were a little cynical for teenager, but you saw it happening all around you, all the time. Couples who once appeared so perfect for each other turned into hostile adversaries the second they broke up, usually over something dumb. And you didn't want that, for yourself, or for Lawrence. But how to let him down, when he'd sounded so hopeful earlier… You didn't have time to be thinking about this! Just because you said you would see him later didn't mean you had to make your decision about him right this moment. There were more important things to concentrate on.

Though you had admittedly been dragging arse across the grounds, you eventually found your way to the Entrance Hall, before heading down the first floor corridor to the staffroom. Standing before the dark wood door flanked by gargoyles that were giving you the eye, you felt panic slowly swell within you. You absently placed a hand to your throat, simultaneously feeling your rapidly fluttering pulse under your fingers, while also trying to discourage the sick feeling rising up your esophagus. What if Snape didn't have anything for you? What if he scoffed at your yearning to do something worthwhile? What if he thought your desire to help others was foolish? What if-

"Miss Goode! What do you think you're doing? Students aren't allowed in there, and you ought to be in class!"

The sudden bark of Professor McGonagall's Scottish brogue nearly caused you to jump out of your goddamn skin. You just barely managed to keep yourself from dropping your student file, clutching it tightly to your chest as your knees weakened. Wilting against one of the gargoyles, who shifted to accommodate your sudden weight, you rather hoped you didn't appear to be _cowering_. That probably would have given her way too much satisfaction. While you still held firmly to your conviction that you weren't intimidated by anyone, you could not help but think that McGonagall had it out for you. Maybe it was your absolute ineptitude in Transfiguration, or perhaps she thought less of you from that time she had to bodily drag you away from beating up another classmate. Whether she thought you were a poor student, or just a trouble maker, the Head of Gryffindor House always seemed to be particularly hard on _you_. Always choosing you to answer questions in class, even when you hadn't raised your hand. Making you the volunteer for the first attempt at a new spell, knowing damn well you'd never even get close. And, it seemed, calling you out in the hallways when you weren't even doing anything wrong.

"Well? Cat got your tongue, Miss Goode?" McGonagall's face was stern as she approached, her hands propped rigidly on her hips as she stared down her nose at you. She watched, unamused, as you forced yourself to straighten up, the gargoyle you'd been leaning against helping you keep your balance. If you hadn't already been so on edge when she snuck up on you like that, you were certain you'd never have reacted so pathetically (_and, perhaps to her eyes, _guiltily). But the fact was that you _were_ on edge, and now your nerves were totally shot; your mouth felt dry, your skin felt tight, and you feared your face was brick red from the way it was tingling. Your eyes prickled with tears that had been threatening to spill over all day, and you honestly feared that they were finally about make a break for it. You were trying to swallow down the cotton in your throat, to try and explain yourself, when the door to the staffroom suddenly swung open.

"What _is_ all the noise about, Minerva?"

Relief flooded over you like a wave of cool water on a sweltering day. Never in your young life had you been _so_ glad to see Professor Snape. He appeared mildly annoyed, his eyes narrowed and his brows drawn together in an irritated scowl. And while this wasn't necessarily a new look for him, the fact that it was directed at _Professor McGonagall_ made it rather startling. He didn't even spare you a glance, his glower remaining squarely on his fellow Head of House, who, for her credit, didn't even flinch at being on the receiving end of such a look. Though, she did seem somewhat offended that _she_ was the one being accused of some wrongdoing, instead of _you_.

You had just drawn breath to try and speak up, but McGonagall beat you to it, her voice clipped and acerbic as she explained, "Severus. I was just questioning Miss Goode as to why she was skulking outside of the staffroom during classroom hours."

Your bone dry throat finally found its voice at that little insult, your hackles rising and your face burning hot as ever. "I was not-!"

"_Skulking?_" Snape cut in with a sudden snort of laughter, and you whipped your head around to him, both in surprise at his outburst, and in a desperate attempt to catch another of his rare smiles. This one was dripping with condescension however, as he waved his hand dismissively in McGonagall's direction. "I've never known a Hufflepuff to _skulk_, Minerva. I'm certain that whatever Miss Goode is doing here, there is a perfectly good explanation for it."

Both of your professors turned their attention to you, now. McGonagall looked dubious at best, a scowl marring her own face as if daring you to actually have said 'perfectly good explanation'. Snape, on the other hand, merely looked quizzical, if a bit expectant. As if hoping you really _did_ have a decent reason for being there, because otherwise you'd make him look the fool in this situation. And far be it from you to ever actively disappoint Snape again. You locked eyes with McGonagall in an open act of defiance, which was probably _horribly_ ill-advised, as you extricated the note from Professor Sprout, holding it out to Snape. McGonagall, briefest fury flashing in her eyes, reached for the note herself, but Snape snatched it out of your hand before she could so much as graze the paper.

Shaking out the folded note, Snape made a bit of a show of holding it up and reading it carefully, his black eyes glinting with what looked suspiciously like triumph. "Just as I suspected," he confirmed silkily. "Pomona sent Miss Goode here to deliver this note to _me_." Tucking the paper into an inner pocket of his bat-like robes, Snape took a step back against the door to the staff room, leaving ample room between himself and the doorframe. "I was rather hoping to discuss the contents of said note with Miss Goode. In _private_ of course, as it has to do with her confidential student records." He looked to you then, jerking his head to the side in a brisk command for you to enter. You didn't hesitate, not even looking back at McGonagall as you slipped past him through the door. "Don't you have a class starting soon, Minerva?"

You didn't have to look back at McGonagall to know she was seething on the edge of apoplexy. Especially when Snape didn't even wait for her answer. He merely shut the door in her face before turning to you, a smug look of satisfaction gracing his features. It didn't last long though. In the beat of silence that followed, Snape seemed to appraise you and your appearance, and you had the horrible feeling that you must have looked as terrible as you felt, if the way his smirk melted off of his face was any indication. You knew there were dark circles forming under your hazel eyes, which were probably also red from how many times you'd been on the verge of sobbing in the last few hours. You reached a trembling hand up to your own face, making a move as if to brush your hair away, but really feeling the feverish heat under your fingertips. Your skin was probably blotchy and highly colored, and you must have looked a real mess.

Reaching back into his robes to retrieve the note from Sprout, he gave it another onceover, apparently reading in more detail this time, before murmuring, "Why don't you have a seat over by the window. I'll join you in a moment."

Nodding once, you spun stupidly in a circle, quickly taking in the appearance of the staffroom. It was rather dark, the high windows not letting in much light as they faced the north side of the castle. The furniture was dark as well, punctuated by a long, narrow table in the center of the room, lined with chairs on both sides. Though there was the odd squashy armchair or loveseat surrounding the perimeter of the walls, along with a towering wardrobe by the door.

You spotted Professor Trelawney in one of the aforementioned armchairs by the fire, but she appeared to be in some sort of deep trance… that, or she was napping with her eyes open. Snape had gone off to a sideboard table near the fireplace at the far end of the room, and you made your way to the seats he'd indicated. Set before one of the large windows was a small, round marble topped table, flanked on either side by two worn wood and leather chairs, and you nervously settled yourself into one of them, tucking your bag under your seat. The table was already occupied by a magazine, and you gently shifted it to one side as you slid your student record across the table towards the other chair. Leaning back into your own seat, you gazed listlessly out the window as you waited, leg bouncing and hands sweating. The view from here was rather bland, and you found yourself staring absently into the vast expanse of trees that made up the Forbidden Forest, before you were shocked back to the present by the sound of porcelain clinking against marble.

"You look like you could use this," Snape explained quietly, sliding a plain yellow and white teacup towards you, the steaming liquid smelling heavily of chamomile and lavender, a single sugar cube resting on the saucer like a whispered suggestion. And you felt like crying again, but this time with relief. All day you'd been walking a tightrope of emotion, ready to plummet at any moment into rage or fear or despair. But this simple gesture felt like a lifeline, and you nodded your head in gratitude, as you couldn't trust yourself to speak. Sitting upright, you pulled the little saucer closer, taking up the sugar cube and plopping it into the tea before lightly swirling the cup to encourage it to dissolve. The gentle motion stirred up the smattering of tealeaves from the bottom of the cup, and you spared a glance towards Trelawney.

Snape must have caught your line of sight, as he snorted and rolled his eyes, before settling into his own chair, crossing his legs at the knee. "Don't mind her," he assured you, shifting the magazine under your file. "She'll be out for another thirty minutes, at least. Typical Tuesday for Sybill."

You hid your smile behind your teacup as you took a sip, and you found that you felt more relaxed than you had in… well, _days_. Even as you watched Snape open up your student record, flipping through the pages and picking up a few small notes, you were suddenly imbued with a sense that things might actually turn out okay. This complacency, however, was immediately replaced with suspicion as you stared down into your teacup. It… didn't _taste_ like he'd slipped you a calming draught, and the liquid certainly wasn't the characteristic blue color. But if it wasn't a potion, then you weren't entirely sure what to attribute your unexpected tranquility to… besides… just…

Being around him.

"It's only tea, Miss Goode."

You gasped and sat up rigidly, and though he wasn't even looking at you, you had the presence of mind to look abashed. "Y… Yes… It's very good. Thank you, sir," you mumbled quietly, taking a more confident swallow from the cup, before placing it back onto the saucer. It _was_ quite good. Floral and calming, reminding you of something your mother might make. And thinking of your mother strengthened your resolve to get a damn grip on yourself.

Checking to make sure Snape was still occupied with your file, you leaned back into your chair and rubbed your hands over your face. Pressing your fingers against your eyes, you watched swirls of colors bloom behind your lids as you forced yourself to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth, slowly and quietly. You did this ten times, counting each breath in your head, trying not to think of anything at all except for your breathing. Your mother had been encouraging you to meditate since you were very small, but you never seemed to remember to do it when you needed it most. Usually you would just roll your eyes at her when she suggested it. This moment was a rare occasion indeed. But as you felt your heart finally start to calm, felt the skin under your palms begin to cool, you couldn't help but admit that mother knew best.

Sliding your hands back down into your lap, you looked up just in time to see Snape look away, and you felt your cheeks tint with embarrassment. Snape spared you the indignity of trying to explain yourself, by diving right into the matter at hand. You were grateful for how often he let your embarrassing behavior slide.

"So," Snape began coolly, leaning back into his own chair, hands folded in his lap. Finally, his black eyes rose to meet yours, and you found yourself unperturbed to be under his austere regard; you were getting used to his intensity. "Professor Sprout expressed that you were experiencing a bit of a dilemma in finding a career path." You nodded once, and he continued. "You wish to pursue a career in potions, but don't care to venture into capitalism?" You cringe at the very suggestion, and he struggled to hide a smirk. "Can't say I blame you." He sat up a little straighter, leaning over your file once more, eyes roving over the notes within. "Explain your predicament, then. In your own words, please," he commanded simply, and you felt your stomach drop.

Sighing through your nose, you had to pull your eyes away from his, instead focusing on your half empty cup of tea. You knew you could be candid with him; since you'd arrived to the staffroom, he'd set up an environment that made you think he wasn't going to judge you. You wished he could just read your mind so you wouldn't have to say it out loud. You'd suspected he could do that for a few years now. But apparently he only did it when it was convenient for _him_.

"There wasn't a lot of literature for careers that focused on potions," you explained, hoping that the lack of information provided would make up for your ignorance. "All I saw were positions at shops that sold potions, and Healing. Like you said, capitalism sounds horrible, and becoming a Healer is… unattainable." Your stomach felt a little queasy again, and you reached for your teacup, taking another soothing sip. Staring down into the cooling tea, you sighed again. "I want to help people," you finally admitted, and it sounded stupid to your own ears, but still you persisted. "I _know_ potions can help people. But I don't have the grades. And I know working in an apothecary can get people the potions they need, but I can see that becoming stale for me quickly." You finally looked up at him, pleading in your voice. "I don't know what else I can do."

Snape's features were inscrutable as he leaned back in his armchair, regarding you thoughtfully. You couldn't keep looking at him for long, gaze falling down to his hands, then to your file, then to your tea. You raised the cup and finished its contents, peering down at the sugary sludge of tealeaves left on the bottom. Yep. Sure looked like tea. You placed the cup back on its saucer, fiddling with the handle a bit, when you realized he was probably doing that thing, where he was waiting for you to look at him before he began speaking. You closed your eyes a moment, counted two breaths, before raising your eyes to meet his. You'd been right.

"I can see now, why you weren't sorted into Slytherin," Snape began offhandedly, and you gave a little start at that. You opened your mouth to question him, but he silenced you with a raised hand. "That wasn't an insult, Miss Goode. I've always thought you would have done quite well in Slytherin, but as Professor Sprout likes to point out to me, your motivations are in a different place. A Slytherin might like to aid in developing the next big breakthrough in potion making, in order to gain notoriety and acclaim. You, on the other hand, would do it simply to help people." At your sustained look of skepticism, Snape rolled his eyes, relenting. "I'm not saying that's a _bad_ thing. It was merely an observation."

You relaxed a little. You supposed he had a point. You were tempted to tell him what the Sorting Hat had told _you_ all those years ago, but it didn't feel appropriate at the moment. You simply nodded your assent to him, before leveling him with a hopeful look. "So…?" you began, hoping he would take it from there.

Which of course, he did. "So. I will attribute your unawareness of magical occupations to your muggle upbringing." You pouted. He ignored you. "You don't have to be a Healer in order to make significant advancements in the potions field. Indeed, Healers themselves actually do very little in way of potion making. Saint Mungo's has entire departments devoted to the production of potions for its patients, as well as a division dedicated solely to the research and development of new potions for cures to magical ailments."

You immediately perked up at this. Research and development? You felt your pulse quicken, like you were on the verge some great discovery. "And I… I don't need to be a Healer to do those things?" you asked, almost breathless with anticipation.

Snape's lips quirked upward at your sudden burst of enthusiasm, but he fought it down, as his next words weren't exactly encouraging. "At Saint Mungo's, I believe you do need to be a qualified Healer to be in their research department." You sank back into your chair again, but before you could fully collapse, Snape had extracted the magazine from its place under your file, sliding it across the table to you. "That being said, there _are_ potions research institutes that have less rigorous requirements. There's also the possibility of independent study, or finding an apprenticeship under a Potions Master, or becoming a teacher and doing your own exploration on the side."

Sitting up cautiously, you glanced from him down to the magazine, before sliding it closer and lifting it up with both hands. It was a potions periodical, and it was opened up to an interview with a Potions Master, Damocles Belby, who was developing a potion to potentially cure Lycanthropy. His research was in the very early stages, but he'd had some promising results so far. The article was rather heavy handed about Belby's need for funding and investors, but otherwise, the implications made your heart soar. _Imagine!_ Imagine being able to develop a cure for something so dreadful. It could potentially change the lives of so many disenfranchised people. You got the impression that that sort of job didn't exactly pay well, if the way Belby was begging for money was any indication. But if one was driven by passion, over fortune… You wondered what House Belby had been in.

Snape was watching you with an amused quirk to his lips. Your excitement must have been evident on your face, and you sheepishly closed the magazine before sliding it back onto the table. "So… So what O.W.L.'s will I need to earn? What would look best when applying at one of these institutions, or seeking an apprenticeship?" At the arch of one heavy black brow, you had the terrible feeling that you should already know the answer to that. Your eagerness withered.

"The simple answer to that question, is that you should try to earn as many O.W.L.'s as possible." You deflated further and turned your head towards the window, looking back out into the bleak forest. Snape was kind enough not to admonish you for your childishness, though his words were rather severe when he spoke again. "An Acceptable will do. You don't have to get an Outstanding in every subject, Miss Goode. Just Potions. Which I can personally assure you, will not be an issue." Even with the harsh tone, your heart leapt at that. You turned back to face him, apprehension still touching your features, but you offered an appreciative smile through it. Snape, however, remained stern as he looked back down at your file. "Your grades are good, overall. Top of your year in Herbology and Potions. High marks in Astronomy and Care of Magical Creatures. Middle of the pack for History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Divination. You're only falling behind in Charms and Transfiguration."

"Which are _core classes_," you sighed miserably. But the intensity of the glare shot your way made you sober up immediately. You sat up a little straighter, clutching the hem of your skirt with a white-knuckle grip of panic.

"Indeed they are," he confirmed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Which means you're going to have to put in a hell of a lot of work in the next few weeks to get your abilities up to snuff." He flipped your folder shut, before placing his elbows against the table and lacing his fingers together, leaning in closer, making sure that you understood every syllable. "Miss Goode. You are an exceptional witch. I _know_ you have the aptitude and tenacity to pull ahead in those classes. And even if you have to use _spite_ as a motivator to hone your spell work into something passable, I would wholly encourage it." There was a pause, before he leaned back in his chair and leveled you with a sneer, that wasn't really directed at you. "I'll tutor you _myself_ if only to prove Professor McGonagall's shabby opinion of you wrong."

You were speechless. You weren't sure anyone outside of Slytherin had ever received such high praise from Snape, and you were absolutely thunderstruck by his words. You were also… _also_…

After a full day of attempting to make their daring escape, you finally felt liquid hot tears spill down your cheeks. You didn't even move to brush them away, simply tilted your head down so the fat droplets plopped onto your grey skirt. Thankfully, you weren't sobbing; your breath didn't even so much as hic-up. But you couldn't stop the flow of gratitude from streaming down your face in warm rivulets. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had had so much confidence in you, had ever wanted you to succeed so vehemently. Whenever that last was, it had probably been your mother who said it. The silence that followed was heavy. Awkward. You didn't want it to be awkward you wanted him to _know_-

"Thank you, sir," you gasped at your knees, finally lifting one arm to rub at your face, staining your sleeve with wet patches. Snape was shifting uncomfortably, but his eyes were narrowed more in concern than annoyance. You sniffed only once, swallowing down your tears before you nodded with conviction. "I'll do my best."

"See that you do," Snape instructed with a note of finality. He began gathering up your student record, along with his periodical, and had just banished away the teacup when you realized that this meeting was over. You followed suit, retrieving your bag from under your chair and slinging it over your neck. Snape stood first, tucking the papers under his arm, and just as you stood to join him, your felt his heavy hand fall on to your shoulder. You started slightly, looking from his hand, following up his arm, to his face, and you found a look of deepest gravity there. You held your breath.

"Miss Goode. Now is not the time to be getting… _distracted_," Snape murmured cryptically. "You need to concentrate on your studies, on earning these O.W.L.'s. And it won't benefit you to be preoccupied with… _extracurricular activities_." You blinked stupidly, unsure what he meant. You were about to open your mouth to explain you weren't _in_ any extracurricular clubs or societies, when he fixed you with a meaningful grimace, arching one of his dark brows in a way that suggested he didn't want to spell this out for you.

And then it hit you.

_Staffroom gossip._

You turned red immediately, looking away quickly as he patted your shoulder, grateful that you'd gotten it and spared you both the humiliation. You cleared your throat and nodded your understanding, fiddling with the silk pouch of crystals that still hung from your bag, though it had long ago gone threadbare. "R-Right," you stuttered, unable to look him in the eye.

And though your embarrassment weighed heavy in your stomach like a stone, you were also sort of… relieved. You'd been looking for a good reason to… to call things off… with Lawrence. All of the encouragement in the world still hadn't convinced you that it would be a good idea, but to keep ignoring the situation would have been… willfully ignorant. But damn, if Snape hadn't just given you an excellent excuse. Squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you nodded your head with conviction this time, convincing yourself that it was the right thing to do.

"Right. I understand." You were finally able to look back up at him, and were relieved to find that his face was just as indecipherable as ever. "Th… Thank you, sir," you said quietly, offering a small smile, which he did not return. He merely nodded.

"You're welcome, Miss Goode," he replied curtly, placing his hand on the small of your back to usher you towards the staffroom door. This was the second time today that someone had touched you there, but this time it made your skin ripple with gooseflesh. And though that sort of response to physical touch wasn't unusual, the fact that it was also rather pleasant was… _alarming_. Heat was making its way up your neck to your cheeks once more, and you were barely paying attention as Snape continued speaking. "I meant what I said about tutoring you, if you need it. If you find yourself at a loss in Transfiguration, don't hesitate to come see me. I _will_ be watching your grades."

You were barely able to stutter out an uncouth "Uh-huh," before he'd opened the staffroom door for you. He was watching you closely, brows pressed together inquisitively at your sudden change in demeanor, and you quickly took a deep breath to try and pull yourself together. "I mean, y-yes, sir. Sorry I… I just have a lot to think about right now. I will remember that, though. Thank you again!" You had said this all rather quickly, before dashing out of the staffroom. You ignored the snickering gargoyles, not daring to look back at Snape, who you imagined standing at the door watching your fleeing back, probably thinking you were entirely mad.

Though you had been hasty to leave, you hadn't been untruthful. You certainly _did_ have a lot to think about now. O.W.L.'s, McGonagall, Lawrence, _SnapeSnapeSnape_. You rubbed your arms as you made your way to your common room, having absolutely no desire to go back to History of Magic for the remainder of the period. Your skin still felt cool and sensitive, and you shivered again at the thought of his hand on your back. Why in the world had that affected you so direly? In fact the whole meeting had been… unreal. Like a dream. His kindness, his endearments, little gestures and words you'd never expected from him. Tea, jokes, praise, advice. It made you feel unbelievably warm, made you want to hold on to those moments like little souvenirs from a faraway place that no one else had ever seen. For years now you'd observed the walls he hid himself behind. The strict set of rules he lived his life by. But with each passing moment, like the one you'd just shared, you couldn't help but wonder if you were becoming the exception to his rule.


	6. Chapter 6 - Wasting Time

You had emphatically told your friends that you were _not_ interested in going out to Hogsmeade this weekend. You had your reasons; very good ones, in fact! But none of your girlfriends were willing to hear of it. 'It's the final trip of the year! The last chance to have some fun before exams! You can't keep hiding in the dungeons Gwendolyn; you need to _get out_!' Ugh. You would have been much better off just _staying_ in the dungeons; your current surroundings were about as brightly lit anyway.

You had eventually submitted to the wheedling of your girlfriends, but you warned them that you _weren't_ going to be happy about it. Which was a mistake, because they did everything within their power to try and _force_ you to be happy. They dragged you to each and every shop, made a reservation for the whole group at Madam Puddifoot's for later in the afternoon, and insisted that you at least_ try on_ a set of emerald green dress robes while in Gladrags. The darkening clouds in the sky overhead reflected your own stormy mood. All the while, you kept a defiant scowl firmly on your face ("_Gwen, you've really got to stop spending so much time down there. You're picking up his facial expressions_."). And while you _had_ managed a bit of a smile inside of Honeydukes, your arms laden with a sack full of licorice wands, pepper imps and coconut ice, the moments between shops were spent constantly looking over your shoulder, keeping an eye out for those _very good reasons_ you had for not wanting to leave the castle.

Joshua DeJarnette _really_ had it out for you this week. You had successfully (_and quite accidentally_) made a fool of him in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when you'd been caught up in the chain of people passing a note from one side of the room to the other. Professor Rakepick had noticed the note just as the folded square of paper had landed in front of you. She had instructed you to stand up and read it out loud to the class, perhaps intending to teach you a lesson about breaking the rules. However, the note had obviously not been meant for you. In fact, it rapidly became clear that this was not meant to be read by _anyone_, except for its intended.

Because it had been poetry. _Love_ poetry. _Written by DeJarnette_. Its recipient, a Slytherin girl by the name of Erica Velazquez, had flushed dark red when you began reading, and you followed suit the further down the note you got. Professor Rakepick, quite pink in the face herself, had stopped you about midway and snatched the piece of paper from your hands, saying she would handle it herself. As you sat back down in your chair, you could feel seething hatred radiating towards you from the back row of desks. DeJarnette and Velazquez had been held back after class, and by the grace of this alone were you able to escape before DeJarnette could seek retribution. You had managed to avoid him for three days now, but your time was running short. You were prepared for the fact you would have to see him in Charms the following week; at least Professor Flitwick wouldn't allow any fighting in his classroom. But you weren't prepared for a possible ambush in Hogsmeade.

And speaking of ambushes, your _other_ reason for wanting to avoid Hogsmeade all together this weekend had become quite adept at the art. For the last three semesters, Lawrence Hollingsworth had been cornering you at every available opportunity, to ask you what you were doing on any given night or afternoon or weekend or literally any time he could find an excuse to try and be alone with you. Lawrence had been remarkably understanding last year, when you had told him that you weren't interested in dating because you needed to concentrate on your O.W.L.'s. He'd wholeheartedly agreed, had even volunteered to help you out with your Transfiguration and Charms, like a form of compensation for all the help you'd given him in Potions. You'd accepted, and through your joint efforts of intensive study, you had gotten an Exceeds Expectations in Charms, letting you advance to the N.E.W.T. course, and had scraped by with an Acceptable in Transfiguration, which was all you really could have hoped for.

But now O.W.L.'s were over, and it would be another whole year before you'd have to take your N.E.W.T.'s. Which apparently, to Lawrence, meant that you had plenty of time to consider dating him _now_. It had become nightmarish, really. You'd wanted so desperately to just hang on to your platonic friendship with him, but now he was becoming a real nuisance. If you were alone, anywhere, for even a couple of minutes, he somehow always managed to turn up and find you. It was innocent enough at first. Sidling up to you in the library to do homework together? Typical, even welcome. Picking the spot across from you at the Hufflepuff table in the Great Hall during meals? Not unusual, though now it had become _every_ meal. Plopping himself onto the couch beside you in the common room, even if someone else was already sitting there? That's when his advances started to get a little annoying. But it had been when he was waiting for you outside of the girl's lavatory one afternoon that you had to draw the line and take matters into your own hands.

That was when you started stealing away into the Potions classroom in the evenings. Snape had barely even questioned you when you showed up one night after dinner, practically begging him for a quiet place to do your homework. And surprisingly (_or maybe not at all surprising_), he allowed it, letting you sequester one of the worktables for yourself after classes had ended for the day. It was a perfect arrangement, really; the dungeon was always cool and quiet. No one ever _voluntarily_ entered the Potions classroom if they didn't have to. And even if one of your oppressors found out where you were hiding, Snape was almost always there. Aside from the protection this offered you from bullies and not-boyfriends, it also provided an endless font of academic tutelage. If Snape was in a good mood (_and he usually was, when classes were over, and it was just the two of you_…) he was usually amenable to helping you with your studies. Answering questions, giving advice on improving your spell work, even proofreading essays, if he didn't have anything better to do. And even if he wasn't around to aid you, the fact that he still trusted you, alone in his classroom while he wasn't there, spoke volumes of his confidence in you.

But Snape wasn't here to protect you from your tormentors now. No, when you and your friends had exited Honeydukes, making your way up High Street to meet your reservations at Madam Puddifoot's, you had seen them. _Both_ of them. DeJarnette and Velazquez where standing outside of Scrivenshaft's, Velazquez admiring the peacock quills through the front window, holding on to her boyfriend's arm, while DeJarnette was very obviously scanning the street, like he was looking for something, or someone, in particular. And just as you were turning around to sneak away from your friends in the other direction, you saw Lawrence exit Zonko's, smiling and laughing, surrounded by his mates, but also distractedly skimming the crowds. And you knew there would be no chance of just hiding amongst your girlfriends; you were about 5 inches taller than the rest of them after a nice summer growth spurt last year, your wild blonde hair making you stand out like a dandelion in a field of neatly trimmed grass.

In a fit of panic, you made a break for it. Detaching yourself from your group of friends, you slinked (_skulked_!) down the nearest side street, disappearing around the corner and hopefully out of view, praying that no one had spotted your daring escape. You had _thought_ this was the street that lead to Madam Puddifoot's, planning on just slipping into the little café and securing the table for you and your friends ahead of their arrival. But your sense of direction must have been lost in your panic, because you found yourself instead in a dark, shadowy alley, surrounded by decrepit, boarded up buildings, a dubious looking potions shop, and a seedy bar and inn with a sign proudly displaying the bloody, severed head of a pig. You had the presence of mind to at least be weary of your surroundings, fingering the hard edge of your wand through your bag. You had been considering the merits of doubling back, searching the streets in hopes that your friends were still nearby, or your adversaries had moved along. But a sudden rumble of thunder overhead had made your decision for you, and you scampered into the nearest doorway at the first thud of a rain drop onto your cheek.

And that is how you found yourself in the Hog's Head, seated at a teeny, tiny table near the window, listening to the heavy rain pelt against the dingy glass. Nursing a lukewarm butterbeer (_which you had insisted you would rather just have straight from the bottle, no need for a mug, thanks_), you were doing the only thing _worth_ doing in a dodgy bar on the wrong side of town with no one to talk to; drawing the natives. Not in any extreme detail, of course. You saved that for plants and mushrooms, typically. But several pages of your black velvet sketch book were dedicated exclusively to tiny, cartoonish caricatures, usually of your professors, though you thought you might commit a page or two to the fascinating inhabitants of the Hog's Head. You'd already sketched out two; the gruff looking bartender, with his dirty rag and dirtier beer mugs, as well as a very skinny older man seated at the bar, who was sporting a pencil thin moustache and wearing a hideous plaid suit that looked to be intentionally splattered with mustard stains, a flimsy paper crown perched on his balding head. Had you known you would be spending the remainder of your day in the presence of such royalty, you would have worn something nicer than denim shorts and a ringer tee.

This… certainly wasn't how you'd expected your day to go. It felt like coming to Hogsmeade had been a huge waste of time. Granted, it could have gone much, much worse. You could be stuck at _Madam Puddifoot's_, for one. The place was lovely, no doubt, with its delicate little cakes and tea sandwiches. But food that _small_ shouldn't be so _expensive_. And if you and your girls had all gotten stuck there from the rain, you would have been forced to keep buying things so as not to get kicked out. There was also the chance that DeJarnette and his girlfriend may have shown up for a romantic afternoon. Or Lawrence could have heard where you all had gone for lunch and came sprinting in. Perhaps going down the wrong street had been a blessing in disguise. And… well. The Hog's Head wasn't so bad. Kind of cozy, actually, with its dim lighting, small quarters, and quiet but curious clientele.

Gee… Maybe you _were_ spending too much time in the dungeons.

You were contemplating who to commit to paper next. There was the austere looking old witch in the blue gown taking up one of the nearby booths, her long silver hair pulled up into a severe bun, her red taloned fingers gleaming with great big rings. She also had a massive wart right between her blue shadowed eyes, topping off her beak-like nose. Then there was the pale young man seated in the corner booth, with the dark red curls and the steely grey-blue eyes. Er… Eye. He was actually fairly attractive for being in a place like this, but he was also dressed like a pirate, with an eyepatch and everything. The only thing missing was the parrot, which he had apparently substituted for a raven instead.

You were contemplating whether or not ravens could be considered seafaring birds, when a dark shadow crossed into your peripheral vision. Starting with sudden fright, you saw a hooded figure standing outside the window, right beside where you were seated. The distortion of the wet glass, as well as the shadow cast by the hood of the strangers traveling cloak, made it so that you could not distinguish any particular features. But you got the distinct impression they were staring through the window at _you_. You felt your mouth go dry, and just as the figure turned away, making its way toward the door, you plunged your hand into your bag and seized your wand. You were absolutely certain it was DeJarnette, that he'd found you and was about to corner you in this nasty little bar where no one was going to come to your aid and everyone would turn a blind eye as he hexed you into oblivion and-

The door to the pub creaked opened, the sound of torrential rain pounding onto the cobble stones outside filling the small space with static noise. You held your breath, wand at the ready to defend yourself, poised on the edge of your seat to spring into action at any moment. But DeJarnette took his time coming in, slowly shutting the door behind him. He then turned his back to you (_was he _stupid?) and made a show of dramatically whipping off his cloak, hanging the sopping raiment onto the coat rack by the door. And your body crumpled with equal parts relief and aggravation. Because it _wasn't_ DeJarnette at all.

Snape looked a bit like a drowned rat after coming out of the rain. Though his cloak was surely charmed against the elements, the hair around his face was stringy, clinging to his damp cheeks and forehead, his shirtsleeves and trousers drenched around the cuffs. Under one arm he held a paper sack that looked on the verge of losing its structural integrity, the stamp on the side baring the name of the dingy potions shop you'd passed on the way in.

As you slumped back into your chair, dropping your wand to the table with a clatter, you realized that Snape's attention wasn't actually on _you_. Not that you were disappointed by that or anything but… you rather thought you had been the reason he'd come in. But no, Snape was decidedly _not_ looking at you. Instead he was facing the bar, with his jaw clenched and his eyes wary, like he was debating turning right back around and leaving. _That_ in itself was disquieting, and you followed his line of sight to the bartender, who was glaring at Snape so lividly that you actually feared he was about to throw the Professor out.

But Snape would not be intimidated, it seemed, as he determinedly made his way over to your table and set his bag down with a thud, its contents rattling together with a tinkle of glass. He then pulled out the empty chair and settled himself into it, though he still wasn't looking at you. His eyes were closed, as though he was attempting to avoid eye contact with anyone else in the bar. You could see a vein pulsating in his temple. When he finally spoke, his voice was dangerously quiet, low enough that you had to lean in closer to hear. "Miss Goode, what in the world are you doing _here_ of all places?"

You openly gaped at him, your face hardening in indignation as you were affronted by his words. "Me? What about you! You scared the shi-" you paused, face going scarlet as he finally _did_ look up at you then, his signature brow arched, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. You crossed your arms over your chest and sank further into your chair, looking quite put out. "You _frightened_ me. Lurking outside the window like that."

"Was I _lurking_?" he asked innocently, finally straightening up as he pushed his lank hair out of his face, glancing about the bar, still with an air of trepidation. For the first time since you've known him, he actually appeared genuinely anxious. And that made _you_ feel anxious. He was one of the most brilliant wizards you knew; what in the world did _he_ have to be frightened of?

"I'm sorry, did I say lurking?" You sat up as well, trying to appear calmer than you felt as you placed your elbows against the table and leaned in closer. "Because what I meant to say was _skulking_."

That did its job, as Snape buried is face in one hand, hiding his snort of laughter from both you and the other patrons. But you felt the tension around him, around you both, begin to ease. You settled your cheek into one of your hands, watching him fondly as he composed himself. This was a rather unique situation for the pair of you. While you'd spent many evenings in the Potions classroom these last few weeks, doing your homework and studying for exams, it had always held a purely academic atmosphere. Sometimes you talked about things other than just school, but those times were rare, and ultimately came back around to your studies. Right now though… It felt like two friends meeting for a drink. You bit your bottom lip as you watched Snape school his features back into calm and collected impassivity, but glanced away quickly when he returned his eyes to you.

"Baseless accusation. I was neither lurking, nor skulking." He'd settled back into his chair, one hand propped on his crossed knee while the other thrummed idly against the small wooden table top. You arched a brow incredulously, which you were getting quite good at, as you were learning from the best. But of course, he matched it and surpassed it, waving his hand dismissively in your direction. "I was _observing_."

You absolutely could not have stopped your grin if you tried. This banter was so easy, felt so natural. You could do this all day with him, really, and you found yourself really _enjoying_ it. Shaking your head, you snatched up your butterbeer with your free hand before taking a swig. "Is _that_ what they're calling it these days?" you asked in mock surprise. "I think Professor McGonagall might have something to say to the contrary."

Snape rolled his eyes, but you could tell he was struggling to fight down his own grin. "I dare say Minerva has something contrary to say about _most _things that I do." He glanced over your set up at the small table; your sketch book, your bag from Honeydukes, the lukewarm butterbeer you were twisting by the neck between your fingers. "You still haven't answered my question," he reminded you, and you found yourself pouting moodily.

"And you haven't answered mine!" you countered, looking dourly out the window as the rain continued to pour, your face still slumped against your hand. "I'm allowed to be here. No one ever told me that the Hog's Head was off limits."

Snape already looked fed up with your brooding. If there was anything he hated, it was a petulant teenager, and you sure were acting the part right now. "You aren't wrong," he agreed curtly. "It isn't off limits to students. However, it's not the sort of place I would advise _any_ student to visit _alone_." He met you with a warning look then, a reminder that he thought you really were a bit of a bubbleheaded Hufflepuff sometimes.

You wilted at that, glancing around at the odd assortment of people in the bar, who were all quietly minding their own business. "No one's been bothering me," you assured him, hoping to put his mind at ease. Though you did feel a curious sort of flutter at the fact that he seemed so concerned with your wellbeing. Your eyes stuck on the bartender though, and you frowned to find he was still casting furtive glances towards the pair of you. "Indeed, the only person anyone has been hostile towards is _you, _sir. Why does the barman look like he wants to throw you out?"

Snape started slightly at that, his eyes shifting to the bartender in question, before glancing away quickly, staring hard at his fingers as they continued to tap agitatedly at the table top. You immediately regretted asking, because that anxious dread was creeping up your spine again, and you wondered if you had crossed a line. Snape, for his credit, only appeared to be annoyed. Though whether it was at your blatant snooping, or at the barman himself, you weren't sure. "Because he's thrown me out before," he admitted quietly, but his obvious effort to keep his voice down was lost on you.

"What?!" you squealed, eyes wide as you sat bolt upright, though the withering glare you received made you shrink back only slightly. Clutching the edge of the table with both hands, you leaned in conspiratorially. "Are you serious?" you whispered excitedly, and though his continued scowling should have set off warning bells, you were too eager for this potentially juicy story. Because honestly, you couldn't just casually mention that you'd been thrown out of an already pretty rough looking bar without giving the details. "Are… Are you a rowdy drunk or something?"

Snape rolled his eyes so hard you feared that they might fall out of his head. "_Hardly_," he spat contemptuously, but you weren't to be deterred. It was your turn to tap your fingers on the table expectantly, because god, he already knew so many dumb and embarrassing things about you. You totally deserved some compensation, right?

But it seemed you weren't going to get much out of him. "I was simply on the wrong staircase at the wrong time," Snape explained blandly, scowl still etched onto his face. "Though for whatever reason, some people seem to think that's _trespassing_." He redirected his grimace from you towards the bar, where the barman suddenly seemed to remember some pressing matter that needed attending in the back room. And as the sour old man bustled off, you watched Snape's facade fall like a stone. Gone was his signature glare of contempt, as it was replaced with an exhaustion so profound, he appeared to age ten years in two seconds. He did not look back to you, instead letting his eyes fall to the sawdust strewn floor. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "It's in the past. Of no consequence now."

You felt… awful. Absolutely dreadful and gross for pressing him, when it was clear that this had not been a thing he had wanted to share. Probably least of all with you. While the story itself was dull, it was quite clear that there was more he was not telling you, and you had absolutely no interest in attempting to extract that information. What right did you have to his secrets? You pulled your hands away from the table, letting them fall to your lap as you shifted uneasily in your seat, trying to find the words to apologize for your obstinacy in the ensuing beat of silence.

"I pulled one of the short straws and landed chaperone duty for the Hogsmeade trip today," Snape said suddenly, and your head snapped up. He still wasn't looking at you, his attention now turned towards the window where the rain continued to pound ceaselessly, and you wondered why he…

Why was he giving you a pass for this? He did this a lot, and you never understood why he was constantly allowing you to get away with being a complete and utter nit. You really didn't deserve to be spared like this, but here he was again, allowing your folly to slide. And not only that, he'd caved to your request that he answer _your_ question first.

Either oblivious to or willfully ignorant of the guilt roiling around inside of you, Snape proceeded with his explanation, his voice returning to its smooth, baritone drawl, devoid now of its earlier hollowness. "I'd been in Prometheus Esoterica when I saw _you_ dash down this alleyway like a bat out of hell." That… caught your attention, and you felt your cheeks go pink as he finally met your eye. "Once the rain started and you hadn't turned back up on High Street, I came to investigate, and found you here." He made an all-encompassing gesture around the bar. "This isn't exactly the sort of place I'd expect a young lady to intentionally spend an afternoon."

The pink tint to your cheeks only darkened, caught off guard once again that Snape apparently found your welfare a priority. Surely you weren't the only student who needed chaperoning on this trip, and yet, here he was. Seizing your dusty butterbeer bottle, you picked at the edge of the paper label as you explained, "It certainly _wasn't_ my intention to spend my afternoon here. It wasn't even my intention to come to Hogsmeade today." You glanced to him, before looking back around to the silent and motley crew of patrons assembled there, your face still flaming. "Though it hasn't been so bad…"

Snape appeared unconvinced, particularly incredulous that you could possibly be enjoying yourself in a dusty hovel like this. His eyes searched yours, and you could feel those little insectile legs scraping on the inside of your skull as you suspected he was looking quite a bit deeper than your hazel irises. And you let him, for now. It was easier this way. "Were you running from someone?" he queried knowingly, and you dropped your eyes to the table. You'd let him in a little bit. You trusted him. But you didn't want him to know…

"Was it DeJarnette?"

You winced, closing your eyes as you nodded your head stiffly. He probably didn't even need to see inside of your head to guess that. All these years you had kept your silent word to him, that you'd never intentionally engage yourself with DeJarnette's bullying. But any time you were still somehow caught up with the boy, it made you feel fresh guilt all over again. Like it was somehow your fault that the bastard wouldn't leave you alone. But then again, it was unfair to place all of the blame on DeJarnette; he hadn't been the only one you had been running from.

"Among others…" you mumbled miserably, absently using your short nails to rip off strips of sodden paper from the bottle's label. There was a beat of silence then, filled only by the pattering of rain outside, the quiet pops from the fire place, the sound of glasses tapping against wooden table tops.

"I could talk to him, you know," Snape offered after some time, and you smiled wanly at the suggestion. Hadn't Snape been the one to tell you that just talking to DeJarnette wasn't going to do much? That the boy was so ingrained with his prejudices that it was simply easier to accept that you had made an enemy? Maybe Snape was just feeling sorry for you. Making the offer as an empty gesture to absolve you of the responsibility of having to deal with this mess yourself.

Sighing around your smile, you shook your head placidly. "I'd really rather you didn't." You set the bottle back down on the table, pushing it away from you as you felt your fidgeting was a dead giveaway for how bothered you really felt. "I didn't do anything. Not on purpose. And he's got to know that. He'll leave me alone if I just ignore him for long enough." Surely Snape was aware of what had happened; he was DeJarnette's Head of House, after all.

Snape looked a little uncertain, like he had something he wanted to say in opposition to that line of thinking. But he merely nodded once. "Fair enough…" came the quiet reply, and you fell into silence once more. It wasn't a comfortable silence though. Not for you. Snape had returned his attention to the deluge outside, and you found yourself counting the buttons on his coat as your brain buzzed with anticipation. You were alone with him, in a quiet bar, with no one to eavesdrop, and especially no school work to use as an excuse to delay. If you couldn't ask him now, when could you ever?

"Professor?" you started slowly, folding your forearms onto the table, glancing up just long enough to make sure you had his attention, before pressing on. "May I ask you a question?" Your heart thudded in your throat; you needed to tread carefully if you wanted to get the answers you sought.

But Snape already looked suspicious. "How very rare for you to ask _permission_ first," he quipped, and you had to drop your head onto your arms to hide your chagrin. Damn it! Looks like remembering your manners was another dead giveaway. "That simply alludes to the weight of the question. You may ask it, but that doesn't mean I'll answer." Peeking back up from your arms, he was regarding you with interest, but still present was the caution he'd entered the bar with in the first place.

"It's nothing _that_ bad," you promised, wincing a little at how eager you sounded. "I just mean it's… it's…" You closed your eyes, counting a few breaths as you compiled thoughts into words, and words into meaning. _Get it together, Gwen_. "Last year, you told me I would have made a good Slytherin."

This was met with silence, but you remembered his conditions quickly this time, as you opened your eyes and peered up to meet his. He nodded his appreciation to your attentiveness, his stiff posture relaxing slightly at your seemingly innocent change of subject. "Indeed, I did. I still think that, sometimes."

You smiled slightly at that, relaxing a little yourself as you leaned onto the table. "The Sorting Hat said something similar. I was a Hatstall, you know." It would have been mortifying if it hadn't been so _frustrating_. While sorting typically took less than a minute, you had been up there for a full six. And you hadn't even been _arguing_ with the Hat. It had been arguing with _itself_, deliberating all of your strengths and weaknesses and attributes and _blah blah blah_. You didn't know anything about any of the houses, except from the Hat's song a few minutes prior. You had no preference, and the Hat didn't know what to do with you.

Snape drew his brows together, as if wracking his brain to remember the incident, but recognition appeared on his face quickly, as Hatstalls weren't exactly a common occurrence. "I do recall there being a… delay in sorting, a few years ago. I didn't realize it had been you." He seemed to ponder this a moment, before asking, "How did it come to its conclusion?"

Your smile grew sheepish as you shrugged a shoulder. "I remember vaguely thinking that I liked the color yellow more than I liked green, and I guess that was as good a reason as any." Snape finally stopped drumming his fingers on the table, instead lifting that hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. You stifled your laughter behind a poorly executed cough, and wiped away your smile with the back of your hand, though it still tugged stubbornly at the corners of your lips. "But before it came to that brilliant decision, it had waffled back and forth a lot between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. And I was just wondering… if…"

This time, your smile did fall off of your face, and it seemed to impress upon Snape once again, how heavily this question weighed to you. His hand slid back down to the table, his face impassive as he waited for you to gather your words, which you finally managed to articulate.

"Would things have been different, if I had been sorted into Slytherin?" you asked finally, your shoulders sagging even as you felt the weight lifted off of them. "I mean… would people like… like DeJarnette, still treat me like garbage if I'd been sorted into their house?" You couldn't bear to look at Snape, your eyes planted firmly on a spot just below his chin as words just kept rushing out of you. "The Hat was conflicted about putting me in Slytherin because of my… my blood status." Your cheek twitched as you said the words; you realized now that the Hat had given you the first indication that blood status actually _meant_ anything to anyone. You wilted further as you closed your eyes, a knot forming in your throat as you took a calculated risk with your next question. "Can half-bloods even make it into Slytherin?"

The silence that followed was tense, anticipation thick like the smell of ozone before a lightning strike. You knew you should look at him. You knew he wouldn't answer until you did. But you were just so terrified that you'd crossed a line… Then again, he had made his terms clear; he'd permitted you to ask your questions, and he'd acquiesced on the condition that you understood that he didn't have to answer any of them. And if you had toed the line, he could just get up and leave. Nothing was stopping him (_except, perhaps, his concern for your safety…_), but he was still here… so…

You were surprised to find something that looked dangerously close to _empathy_ in the lines of his face. His expression was typical; dark brows pressed together, lips downturned, but there was an unmistakable softness around his eyes that you'd seen on occasion before. You held his gaze, your skin tingling with heat under his intense regard.

There was a pause as Snape considered you, seeming to sort through your questions before picking out the first point he wished to make. "In your case, it's very likely that your actual blood status had nothing to do with the Sorting Hat's indecision. It more likely was a product of the environment in which you were raised." You pouted, not understanding, and you felt an urge to defend yourself and your mother once again, but Snape silenced you with a placating gesture. "Slytherin is a house that values _tradition_. Traditions that are most staunchly upheld by pure-bloods and old wizarding families. I think I remember you saying yourself that you were never raised with any such traditions, because you were brought up by your muggle mother." The smallest of smirks graced his lips as he added, "If you had been sorted into Slytherin without any knowledge of the customs of the wizarding world, you would have been absolutely miserable by the time you shattered your ink bottles in your first year."

You couldn't help but smile in return. That was an excellent point, you realized, and actually made quite a bit of sense. Your ignorance was already under fire. It would have been so much worse had you been sorted into Slytherin, which was probably the actual reason why the Hat made its ultimate verdict. "So, there have been half-bloods in Slytherin, then?" you asked, forging ahead as you were quite determined to get the answers to all of your questions.

There was another pregnant pause as Snape deliberated, his eyes searching yours, but without the mind beetles this time. "Slytherin _does_ accept half-bloods, from time to time," he answered finally, his words measured, carefully chosen, and you found yourself hanging on to every single one of them. "And since they are typically descendants of at least one reputable family line, they're usually treated with the same respect expected of their pure-blood peers. However," he'd leaned forward on this word deliberately, as you had just opened your mouth to protest. "Half-bloods may still receive their fair share of ridicule, though it's usually disguised as 'friendly teasing.' Half-bloods also have to do more and work harder to prove themselves worthy of being there. It's often thankless, and can be very lonely for them."

Your eyes fell away from his as you began fidgeting with the paper scraps of your butterbeer label. As you mulled over his words, you got a very distinct impression from them. One you had suspected for… years. Now was your chance to ask, and you threw caution to the wind as you did just that.

"You… sound like you're speaking from experience," you whispered, surprised by how neutral you managed to keep your tone, despite your utter terror. Your heart was really pounding now, and you could hear the blood rushing in your ears as your head spun a little. Oh, why had you said that? Don't press your luck. He'd told you years ago not to press your-

"I am," he confirmed tonelessly, and you felt your stomach drop. His face had gone hard again, the sympathy you had seen before having vanished, replaced instead with guarded impassivity. That wasn't what you'd wanted. You hoped he would open up a little, not close you off. You just wanted to know, to finally confirm, that you were the same, that you had this in common. Your mouth felt dry as you tried to keep your tenuous grip on your emotions, and your brain went into overdrive to try and find an excuse, an apology that would never even come close to explaining how terribly you felt.

"I'm telling you this in confidence, Miss Goode. And I hope you appreciate the gravity of that," came his cool assertion, and your mind screeched to a halt. Your head was filled with the sound of your throbbing heart and the driving rain on the window pane, but you kept your eyes affixed to his as he spoke. "I trust that nothing you and I have spoken of will leave this tavern?"

"No," you whispered emphatically, shaking your head so your hair bounced around your face. "No, sir. Of course not." You stared directly into his eyes then, hoping, praying, that he would look inside and see exactly where your devotion lay. But you didn't feel the tell-tale beetles scurrying around in your head. He simply nodded and accepted your word. And you felt that this was the first time he'd ever accepted anything from you without question. You felt so overwhelmed with contradicting feelings that all you could do was slump back into your chair and watch him as he turned towards the window.

"I don't think this rain is going to let up," he said conversationally, and you were relieved that he had chosen to end the conversation for you. And you also had to agree; it really looked miserable out there. You could barely see High Street through the greyish haze of falling water, but you could just make out darkened figures dashing past the alleyway entrance. Students, you imagined, with their robes hiked up above their heads, making a mad dash for the castle as the allotted Hogsmeade time wound down, rain be damned. But of course, you hadn't worn any robes today. You looked down at your white T-shirt and shorts, and realized suddenly how exposed you were.

And Snape seemed to notice too, appearing quite disgruntled by your choice of attire. You crossed your arms over your chest self-consciously and pouted. "It had been sunny when we _arrived_," you disputed, and Snape just rolled his eyes as he stood. Looks like you didn't have a choice. You scrambled to shove your wand and your sketchbook into your satchel as you followed suit.

"You carry the bags," he commanded, leaving no chance for you to reprove as he strode across the bar towards the front door. You hastily tossed a few Knuts and a Sickle onto the table before doing as you were told. Scooping your Honeydukes bag into one arm, and carefully balancing Snape's bag from the potions shop in the other, you strode over to where he stood, looking quite put out as you watched him shake out his traveling cloak.

In a billowing whip of black fabric, the heavy material was suddenly draped over your shoulders, and his fingers brushed your neck as he secured the silver fastening under your chin. You didn't move a muscle as you stared down at his hands, stunned by their proximity, and further perplexed by this unexpectedly kind gesture. He made sure the cloak draped over your arms to protect the bags, and he seemed to consider pulling the hood up over your head, but ultimately decided you had too much hair for that to be effective.

Slipping his wand out from his sleeve, he opened the door leading out of the bar, and the sound of pounding rain was so thunderous that you didn't quite catch the incantation he cast. But you _were_ impressed by the transparent blue barrier held aloft by the tip of his wand. You'd always heard that umbrella charms were _en vogue_ over in the States, and wondered why they weren't more popular in England. They were so much more convenient, and considerably prettier. Exasperated by your sudden fascination with what he surely considered run-of-the-mill magic, Snape threw an arm over your shoulders to guide you under the canopy before stepping out into the rain. The bar door clanged shut behind you, and you were both enveloped by deafening sound and permeating darkness.

Snape kept his arm wrapped tight around your shoulders, holding you close to his side in order to keep you under the shield of his spell. Together, you made your way down the alley towards High Street, and then the castle. And you were immeasurably grateful for the pounding rain and the darkening sky closing in around you. They hid your movement as you leaned further into his touch, on the pretense of wanting to keep dry from the rain. They guarded you as you surreptitiously brushed your nose over the shoulder of the cloak draped around you, inhaling the damp smell of rain mixed with the lingering cling of fireplace smoke and medicinal herbs. And they drowned out the thundering of your heart as you savored the weight of his hand on your arm, his cloak on your shoulders, the nearness of him. You had finally gained a great measure of his trust, an endeavor that many might have considered a waste of time. But maybe it had been worth it, for this.


	7. Chapter 7 - Sunrise

This couldn't wait any longer.

You had been in this position before; standing in front of the locked door of the Potions classroom, first thing in the morning on your first day of school. But instead of patiently waiting for your professor to show up as you had done all those years ago, you were pacing the dungeon floor before the ancient wood panel, trying to work the nervous energy out of your system. You would occasionally glance at the watch you had borrowed from one of your girlfriends, waiting until you felt it would be appropriate to knock. The sun had barely risen, after all. But you just couldn't _stand it_.

You had nearly accosted Professor Snape after the Welcoming Feast last night, but had managed to restrain yourself. _Barely_. The rest of your evening had been spent tossing and turning in your four-poster, burning questions and desires churning round and round in your head like a carrousel of anxiety. The second the alarm on your borrowed watch had gone off at six o'clock, you were up like a shot. You forced yourself to dress carefully, to go down to the lavatory and brush your teeth and wash your face. But that was the extent of your preparation before you grabbed your school bag and dashed down to the dungeons.

He was probably up already. Not that he struck you as an early riser; indeed, the man constantly appeared to be in desperate need of a good night's sleep. But he also seemed the type who would wake up early simply to get a head start on getting the day over with. Sort of like how you felt right now. You had been anticipating this moment for almost three weeks, and the tension only mounted the longer you waited. And you didn't want to wait any more. Not when this was _finally_ within your grasp.

You had just made the decision that it was time to knock, when you heard the rattle of the door lock. Freezing midway through a turn in your pacing, the classroom door finally flew open and you were face to face with a very tired and disgruntled looking Professor Snape. His footsteps stuttered to a halt at the sight of you standing there alone in the dungeon hallway, and his annoyed expression faltered to concern for a brief moment as he took in your disheveled appearance. There was a beat of silence then, as you both simply looked at each other. It seemed as though you had lost your voice, suddenly…

"Miss Goode," Snape greeted you slowly, carefully, like one might croon to a cornered animal. "It's… rather early. Not even seven o'clock yet. Are you quite alright?" And you realized that how fretful you felt on the inside, must have been reflected on the outside. You were sure there were dark smudges under your eyes (_like his_) and you were certain your hair was a flaxen mess of out-of-control curls. Your fingers fidgeted with the pouch of crystals that still hung from your satchel, a nervous gesture you'd never grown out of, even now at the age of seventeen.

"Can we talk?" you asked abruptly, completely ignoring his inquiry to your wellbeing, wincing at the hint of desperation that laced your newly regained voice. But you didn't really care right now, because you _were_ desperate. _Three weeks!_ "P-Please… Sir?"

Snape considered you and your request, appearing much more awake and alert now as he looked you over. With the barest hint of wariness gracing the lines of his face, he stood aside in the doorway to let you through, and you visibly relaxed as he accepted your request. God, _finally_. You nodded your thanks as you slipped past him. You didn't wait while he shut the classroom door again, instead striding purposefully into his office, where you summoned the worn, brown leather chair you had become so fond of over the years.

You were already rummaging through your school bag when Snape arrived, and he seemed momentarily taken aback to see you already settled into his spare office chair. Though whether he was surprised you knew how to summon it, or was impressed that you managed to summon it at all, given your track record with charms… he spared you the indignity of distinguishing which. Taking a seat himself, he watched you expectantly, his fingers laced together on his desk as you continued to search the depths of your bag.

The first thing you extracted was a bundle of red pens, and you paused your frantic hunt as you stared down at them, rolling them slowly against your palm. This was it. This would be the last time you gave him this routine gift, this customary symbol of the beginning of your unlikely friendship. Was _this_ the beginning of the end? Would you ever see him again after you graduated from Hogwarts? Your chest felt tight, and you had to force yourself to move, to speak, because he was watching you so closely. You didn't look him in the eye as you gently placed the bundle onto the edge of his desk.

"I promise, I didn't force my way into your office just to give you these," you assured him with a shaky laugh. You glanced up long enough to watch him arch a brow, and you managed a wobbly smile as he took up the gift with silent acceptance. Returning your attention back to your bag, you really had to swallow down your roiling emotions now, as your fingers brushed the real reason you were here.

The envelope was frayed and torn along the edges, the ink on the front displaying your Enfield address was smudged, and the emerald green wax seal on the back was cracked and chipping. You'd handled it more than was strictly necessary, but you absolutely could not help it if you'd tried, which to be fair, you hadn't. You'd read it several times a day since you'd received it nearly a month ago, just to constantly reaffirm its reality; that it was a real thing that you had received, and not a figment of your fantasies. You were almost reluctant to allow it to leave your hands now. But while its physical weight could confirm its reality, only Snape would be able to verify its authenticity.

Your hands trembled as you placed the letter on Snape's desk, sliding it towards him before hesitantly pulling your hand away from it. "I received that over the summer," you explained, your voice shaking as minutely as your hands. "I'd… I'd like for…" you cleared your throat as your voice cracked, wanting to close your eyes to hide your shame, but refusing to take your eyes off of the envelope. "I wanted you to read it. I just want to know if it's… legit?"

Snape appeared marginally confused as he leaned forward, taking the envelope between his fingers and pulling it toward him. Between the early hour and your solemnity, you couldn't blame him for the bewilderment. But he also looked curious, slowly observing the worn down paper and smeared ink, turning the envelope over in his hands. It was only when he spotted the wax seal that he betrayed any sort of emotion, both of his eyebrows lifting in surprise. You felt your heartbeat quicken as he hastened to extract the letter. Four smaller slips of paper flopped out onto his desk, two pink and two green, made of heavier cardstock than the letter, and Snape's shock only intensified as his mouth fell open slightly. You were literally on the edge of your seat as he finally unfolded the letter.

You knew the whole thing by heart at this point, and you watched with bated breath as he finally began to read.

_Dear Miss Gwendolyn Goode,_

_Allow me first to congratulate you on being Hogwarts next rising star in the field of potions. I have it on good authority that you are well on your way towards surpassing your predecessors, having received the third highest O.W.L. in the subject in the last century of Hogwarts history. At this rate, there's a chance you'll pass your own professor in N.E.W.T.'s! (Though I bet he won't admit it!)_

_I'm always on the lookout for up and coming young minds, and would like to extend my personal invitation for you to attend the next annual gathering of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Anybody who's anybody in the field will be there, and it could be a perfect opportunity for you to make connections and help you find your way once you graduate. _

_It's a two day event set to take place next March at The Atticus Hotel in London; the days of which are filled with lectures and presentations about the newest potion advancements, but it's at the after parties where the real fun takes place. I've enclosed two passes, as well as two tickets to my own personal little soirée to take place on Saturday evening. _

_Do try to talk your parents, as well as your professors, into allowing you to attend. The second pass and ticket is for your chaperone. If you require assistance, I would be happy to write to any of them on your behalf. Build up a good résumé over the next 7 months, and you may very well find your future at this event. I'm looking forward to finally getting to meet you. Feel free to write back at this address if you have any concerns._

_Happy Brewing!_

_Professor H. E. F. Slughorn_

Your fingers danced over the crystal pouch, the silk fabric worn and pilled from years of handling. Amethyst for protection. Citrine for success. Agate for anxiety. You didn't know if any of that was accurate but you wanted to pretend that it was right now. You were counting your breaths as you numbly watched Snape read the letter a second time, before lifting the four tickets and scrutinizing them closely. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slipped everything back into the worn envelope, before folding his hands atop his desk. His face betrayed nothing. You couldn't _breathe_.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he offered with a smirk.

Your entire body lurched, flopping bonelessly against the leather armchair as you stared at your professor in utter disbelief. "It's real?" you croaked, feeling stupid and unable to process. "It's not… not a prank or something?" For weeks you had feared that it wasn't real. That you'd been had. That some old codger was pulling your leg and was having a grand old laugh at your expense. You'd never once heard of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. It sounded made up. So did the name 'Slughorn' for that matter. But then again most things in the wizarding world sounded made up.

Snape almost looked sympathetic as you voiced your incredulity, but he was quick to assuage your fears. "Horace Slughorn was the Potions Master here at Hogwarts before I was," he explained easily, smoothing his thumb over the chipped wax seal on the back of the envelope. "And I know quite factually that he's on the membership board for the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. It is indeed 'legit' as you put it. _And_ quite an honor."

You were on the verge of swooning. You'd only ever fainted once in your life, when you were required to have blood drawn for a medical examination when you were ten. The fuzzy, cottony feeling in your head at this very moment reminded you of that unfortunate event, and you curled forward, placing your face in your hands and your elbows upon your knees.

It was real. _Real!_ Your entire future was contained in a single parchment envelope, was stamped onto green and pink tickets, was waiting for you in a hotel in London. You felt warm droplets slip between your fingers as your shoulders began to tremble with the implications of all this. Every fear and doubt you'd ever had about your future was bubbling to the surface, but now you had something you hadn't possessed before; _opportunity_. The potential for the rest of your life had been delivered by owl right to your doorstep.

"Keep it together, Miss Goode," came a deep, soothing voice, from oh, so far away. You remembered then, that you were sitting in your Professor's office, and he'd been quiet for an awfully long time until now. Underneath the fear and the dread and the utter elation was a swell of deep affection for this man. He'd let your high degree of sensitivity, that is to say, your penchant for crying at the drop of a hat, slide on multiple occasions. Today would be no different, it seemed, and you were grateful. You quickly wiped your face with your sleeve as you raised your head, and you could hear the blood physically rush past your ears. When your eyes focused, Snape was still there, watching you patiently, his eyes creased with concern, but his voice was firm as he addressed you. "There's a lot to unpack here," he explained, tapping his fingers against the envelope. "I assume you wish to attend?"

The unexpected burst of giggles that escaped you seem to catch you both off guard. You were such a mess, unsure of whether to laugh or cry, but your addled brain had clearly decided on both. "Of course!" you confirmed, wiping a fresh round of tears from your cheeks as you nodded eagerly.

Snape still seemed wary of your emotional outbursts, but the corner of his lips quirked into a reluctant grin. "Good girl," he murmured, and you felt your face flush a little hotter than it already was. You tried to get a hold of yourself, counting your breaths, rubbing your face, trying to get some feeling back into it besides just the heat. "Have you received permission from your mother to do so?" he questioned, and that finally got you to sober up. Snape was all business, and the tone of his voice alone was grounding. The more he spoke, the clearer you felt.

Nodding more slowly, you finally settled your hands into your lap, feeling that you had at least schooled your features into something passing for 'calm and collected'. "Yes" you confirmed, remembering how tightly your mother had hugged you as she'd read the letter over your shoulder. While you had been dumbfounded, your mother had been ecstatic. She'd never had any doubts as to whether the invitation was real or not, and she'd encouraged you seize the chance that fate or the universe or whatever had offered up to you.

At Snape's continued silence, and the slow creeping of one of his eyebrows, you were a little unsure of the subtext you were supposed to be receiving. Realization only struck once Snape rolled his eyes and he waved his hand in an expectant turning motion for you to continue. "Oh! I can… get her to write a letter? To… To Professor Sprout?" you ventured, but he waved his hand one more time, and you wracked your brain. "And… Dumbledore?" Snape nodded and pointed his finger at you in a gesture that said 'bingo'.

"I think that would be wise, yes," Snape agreed, as if you had come up with the idea all by yourself. Your turn to roll your eyes in exasperation, but his teasing was welcome at this point. It was a familiar landmark in unknown terrain. He pressed on. "You must be 17 by now, which makes you as good as an adult in the eyes of the Ministry. But since this will be taking place during the school year, and you'll likely need to take time off to attend, you'll also need to procure a chaperone to go with you. Perhaps your mother?"

Your mouth fell open at this. You knew you were more or less a legal adult now. You'd actually be 18 in December, which would make you an adult by muggle standards as well. And while Slughorn's letter and the extra passes had clearly indicated that you would certainly be traveling with a chaperone… never once had you considered bringing your _mother_. And you wondered if maybe she _should_ have been your first choice, as opposed to…

You hoped that the redness burning on your cheeks could be taken as the lingering effect of your earlier tears. Twisting the folds of your skirt between your fingers, you had to look away from him as you stuttered, "I… I was rather hoping that… y…you…" You couldn't finish the thought out loud. Snape had been the _only_ option to spring to mind when you'd received the letter. It seemed so obvious then. He'd been your guiding light every step of the way before now; why wouldn't he accompany you on the next leg of the journey?

There was a lull of silence then, where you shifted uncomfortably in your chair, hoping he wasn't waiting for you to look up at him. You were already humiliated, you didn't need to face his contemptuous gaze as well. But when he finally spoke, his voice was neither contemptuous nor mocking. It was mostly unsure. As if he found your suggestion rather dubious. "Me?"

At least he wasn't outright rejecting the idea. Swallowing hard, you spared him a quick glance before shrugging your shoulder in a poor charade of indifference. "Is that alright?" you asked, your voice cracking again, and you closed your eyes with a wince.

Silence again, and this time you did manage to peer up at him, prying your eyes open in hopes of gauging his reaction. And you were surprised to find him considering you quite seriously, his bottom lip pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a gesture you had observed often when he appeared to be in deep thought. And that made your heart thud nervously. What was he extrapolating from your apparent _desire for him_… to, uh, be your chaperone? It wasn't until this moment that you realized that your suggestion could have been misconstrued as something verging on inappropriate. You were drawing breath to launch into an explanation of your innocent intent, when his hand flicked away from his mouth, his palm raised to the ceiling in an act of nonchalance.

"I suppose it does make sense for a master to attend with his apprentice."

Your mind came screeching to a halt as you stared at him. Breathing, blinking, all secondary biological functions now as your brain used all of its power in an attempt to process his words into meaning. "A… Apprentice?" you stuttered dumbly, as though it were some foreign word you only vaguely knew the definition of.

"Certainly," he confirmed coolly, the barest hint of a grin on his thin mouth. He spoke casually, as if you were merely discussing routine homework and not the potential course of your entire career. "An apprenticeship is exactly what you need to bulk up that résumé. Most don't apprentice under a Potion's Master until after they've graduated. It would help you stand out from the pack."

You were shaking your head in disbelief, still unsure if your body had resumed its natural functions yet. You could barely feel your chest rising and falling. "You want me to be your…" You swallowed hard, throat clicking against your dry tongue. You drew your brows together in bewilderment. "I didn't… didn't know you took on apprentices," you stated frankly. In all your time here at Hogwarts, and indeed, all the time you'd spent in the dungeons, you'd never once seen another student act as apprentice under Snape. It was something you never considered before, because you thought it was something he never did.

At that, he almost looked embarrassed, like he'd hoped you'd overlook that tiny detail. You'd never seen color reach those high, pallid cheeks before. "Well, to be fair, I don't," he admitted ruefully, his eyes sliding away from yours. "Truthfully, no one has been up to my standards before now."

_Before you_.

Your lashes fluttered, and you could feel fresh, hot tears clinging to them. This was too much. This was all too much to take in right now. You'd been on edge for three weeks already. Now that everything was coming to fruition, you were being handed more than you ever thought possible. More than you thought you deserved. And clearly more than your exhausted emotional state could handle. You pressed one hand over your eyes in an attempt to shield yourself from him, both physically, and mentally. You didn't want him peeking into your head right this moment. This went far beyond tutoring or proofreading essays. He'd been invested in your future since fifth year, but you never once imagined that he would willingly give you this gift, this advantage, over everyone else. Was it your raw talent? You eagerness to advance in the field in order to help others? Or was this the result of the rapport that you had been building for nearly seven years?

"Stay with me, Miss Goode," came the warm wash of soothing baritone, and you hiccupped into your hand. You nodded silently in reply, but you didn't remove your hand from your eyes until you were entirely sure your face was no longer crumpled with unbidden emotion. Gasping in a deep breath, you mopped up your cheeks with your sleeves once more. He was watching you, and his eyes were soft, so soft. And though he'd given you this gift with the sort of flippancy dictated by his acerbic personality, it was clear that the magnitude of his action was not lost on you, and thus your gratitude was not lost on him.

"I did not wish to overwhelm you," he explained quietly, and you allowed his voice to gently pull you back into the present. "We don't have to discuss all of this right now. Come see me tomorrow after classes, once you've got your schedule. Then we can go over the details of your apprenticeship, as well as the Society of Potioneers. Is that amenable to you?"

You exhaled a ragged sigh of relief, the tension slowly receding from your body like low tide. "Yes, sir," you conceded, nodding your head slowly. He was giving you time to process all of this. To let it sink in and to come back bright eyed tomorrow. You swallowed thickly, unsure what to say, besides, "Thank you, sir."

Snape waved his hand, dismissing your sentiment. "Don't thank me," he said quietly. "Your own skill and persistence got you here. You ought to be proud of yourself."

You smiled weakly, feeling your throat squeeze tightly again. Unwilling to risk speech, you simply nodded, dabbing at the corners of your eyes with the cuff of your sleeve. You wished you could go back to bed now. Your lack of sleep last night (_nay, for the last three weeks_) seemed to be catching up with you all at once, and both your body and mind were fatigued. There was comfortable silence then, as you ruminated in your own exhaustion, and Snape regarded you with quiet interest. After a beat, he picked up the envelope from Slughorn and tapped the edge of it against the wood of his desk to get your attention.

"Do you mind if I hold on to this?" he asked, and you shook your head mutely. It would probably be safer with him anyway. He nodded at your assent, and slipped the envelope into one of the inner pockets of his robes. "I'd like to discuss it with Dumbledore. All of it, if that's alright with you. He will be the one responsible for making any decisions or arrangements regarding the Society meeting." Snape seemed bitter about that, his eyes narrowed in his usual sneer that you knew wasn't aimed at you. "And I rather believe that he is the 'good authority' responsible for this anyway. He and Slughorn were always chummy."

You straightened up a little, your tired eyes widening slightly. Dumbledore was… what? Gossiping about _you_? "You… You think so?" you asked reluctantly, wondering how Dumbledore was even aware that you existed. You weren't sure you'd ever personally spoken to the man in your life. Even when you'd decked DeJarnette back in third year, McGonagall had been the one to handle the whole thing.

"I do," Snape confirmed, and you were curious to see that color high on his cheeks again. "The Headmaster is… well aware of your talent." Color suffused your face as well now, as you put together that Dumbledore knew you existed… because Snape had told him about you. And you felt your stomach flutter at the notion that you were a topic of private conversation. You looked away demurely; if he could let your embarrassment slide, you could return the favor. "You _are_ on the verge of beating my N.E.W.T. score, after all."

Your eyes snapped right back to his at that, wider than ever, your previously drained state vanishing. "Wha-! No way!" you babbled uncouthly, but Snape merely lifted his eyebrows, a tight little grin tugging at his mouth. "That… That's impossible!"

"It is _entirely_ possible," he chided, rising from his chair as the school bells began to ring, signaling the start of breakfast. You followed his lead, standing aside as he made his way for the door. "You have a distinct advantage over me when I was your age, after all."

You drew your eyebrows together with suspicion as he held the door open, offering for you to exit first. You didn't even flinch when he settled his hand onto the small of your back as you passed. "And what would that be?" you questioned tentatively, looking over your shoulder so as to keep your eyes on him.

Snape merely shrugged a shoulder, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You've got _me_ for a teacher."

You stopped in your tracks, mouth falling open at the astronomical levels of sass you'd just experienced, and you didn't hold back the incredulous laugh that escaped you. He returned your mirth with a smirk of his own as he patted your back lightly, his tone shifting right back to business. "Go to breakfast," he instructed, nudging you towards the classroom door. "Get your schedule and come back tomorrow evening. We've got quite a lot of work to do in your final year, Miss Goode. I hope you're ready for it."

Your skeptical smile morphed into something more genuine at his words, at his touch, and you nodded as you made your way across the Potions classroom. Snape did not follow, but you hadn't really expected him to, lingering instead by his office door. Once you'd reached the door to the dungeons, you turned around, hand hovering over the handle. "I'll do my best," you promised him, a promise you'd made to him before. "Thank you, Professor." He nodded his assent before shooing you off, and your smile stayed firmly on your face the entire trek through the dungeons.


	8. Chapter 8 - Falling in Love

It started with his hands.

You weren't sure exactly _when_ it started, but it _had_ been early on in your apprenticeship when you realized that in all of your years at Hogwarts, you had never actually _seen_ Snape brew a single potion. In the classroom he was an instructor, an observer, but never a demonstrator. It was not until your apprenticeship began that you got to witness a true Master at work.

The terms of your apprenticeship were simple, but left you almost completely devoid of a social life. Any time you had a free period in the day, you were expected to spend those hours in the Potions classroom, where you would usually pass the time grading tests and essays. Occasionally you were given more interesting jobs, such as assisting with lessons for younger students, or your personal favorite, dissecting preserved animals and harvesting their organs for ingredients. Most of the time you were left on your own to complete these tasks; Snape trusted you, and under his tutelage you had become adept at your job.

But your _proper_ education took place on Saturday evenings in the dungeons.

Apparently, the reason you'd never actually witnessed Snape brewing anything, was because he had a private potions lab, its door hidden behind one of the many shelves in his office. You'd spent six and a half years visiting that damn office and _never once_ had you even _suspected-…_ Well. The man clearly valued his privacy. The lab was spartan and basic; two work tables, four cauldrons, and several cupboards and cabinets containing various instruments and tools needed for preparing ingredients.

Every Saturday, you would arrive precisely at eight o'clock after dinner, and would proceed to spend the next four hours brewing potions with your professor. Typically, these sessions were spent restocking potions for the Hospital Wing; endless cauldrons full of Pepperup Potion, Calming Draught, Dreamless Sleep and Essence of Dittany. Rudimentary, but essential. These necessary infusions were concocted in three of the available cauldrons. It was in the fourth cauldron where you worked on your more… ambitious projects.

But whether you were working on a simple Hiccoughing Solution, or attempting the month long process of making crystal clear Veritaserum, the one constant factor in your education was that Severus Snape was a _savant_. Never once had you opened a text book in his classroom; you had always taken down his notes from the board. In fact, you had six composition books worth of them, and were working on a seventh. The same could be said for his private lab. He worked from memory alone, never once having to crack open a book to find a recipe. The only book to be found in the lab was his personal grimoire, a thick, brown leather-bound book where he'd written down his own formulations for countless potions. He allowed you to use it as reference (_every other published potions text was rubbish in his experience_) and you handled the tome with the utmost reverence and respect. He'd apparently improved nearly every single potion found in both standard and advanced level textbooks, either making their brewing simpler, or increasing the effectiveness of the potions themselves. Small deviations in timing, stirring, preparation or temperature were the keys to turning a basic potion into something extraordinary.

Equally as impressive as his mental prowess, however, was his technique. Everything he did, from the slicing of delicate herbs to the measuring of volatile liquids, was so exact, so controlled, it was like watching an automaton. And it was during these observations of his methods that you started to take notice of his hands. Because they were bloody _beautiful_.

At first, you chalked it up to the artist in you. The way he worked was something akin to art, after all, and you were predispositioned to find beauty in all that you saw. And his _hands_… Delicate bones wrapped in translucent gossamer, laced with blue veins, tipped with trim nails. Long and slender, like pale spiders creeping over the worktable you shared, they were precise with a knife, powerful with a mortar and pestle, graceful with a stirring rod. Like the conductor of an orchestra, every movement was carefully chosen to elicit the greatest effect.

To the point that you couldn't stop thinking about them. You'd officially dedicated two pages of your sketch book to an intimate study of his hands. Human anatomy had never been your strongest suit, but you were devoted to capturing their elegance on paper. From his finely boned fingers to the cuff of his shirtsleeves ending above the knuckles, you'd committed their sharp angles and smooth lines to memory. But his hands had only been the beginning.

Over the last six and a half years, you had become increasingly comfortable being around him. You felt like you knew him well. Or at least as well as he would allow you to. But quiet nights in closed quarters had you noticing things you'd never picked up on before. Things that may have been negligible to the casual observer, but had _you_ utterly captivated. The curved nip of his narrow waist in his impeccably tailored frock coat. The sharp cut of his jaw usually hidden behind a swath of shiny hair. The way he couldn't keep his fingers _off of his goddamn mouth_ when he was deep in thought. It was becoming distracting, honestly, the way he pinched and traced and tugged at his lips. It forced you to watch both his hands _and_ his mouth… and… _and_...

Now there were _eight_ pages in your sketchbook, entirely devoted to _him_. You refrained from drawing his full visage (_god forbid anyone peruse your art and get any ideas_), but bits and pieces of him were scrawled across the paper, staggered between pages of your usual fare of flowers and mushrooms. Hands and boots and buttons and hair. You'd tried to convince yourself that it wasn't totally creepy. That you were simply inspired by a unique individual, and you would never deny yourself the influx of creativity, especially for a subject matter that was not in your usual repertoire.

But that would make him your _muse_. And _that_ meant… Well. You'd been denying it for years, hadn't you? But there was really just no way around it any more.

_Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad… _You're hot for teacher.

This realization wasn't entirely unexpected, but finally admitting to yourself that you had a bloody _crush_ had been rather alarming. You wondered at first if it was just infatuation; that you were so impressed with his abilities that you found yourself idealizing him through rose colored glasses. But one look through your sketches proved that not to be the case. Severus Snape was not a handsome man; you weren't so disillusioned as to think he was anything _but_ ashen skin and oily hair and crooked teeth and a hooked nose. But those were exactly the aspects which you had drawn in such loving detail, because even if they weren't conventionally attractive, you still found them endearing.

And indeed, it had never been his looks that drew you in, but his words and actions. The way he treated you. The way he'd been silently taking care of you for years now, and continued to do so. Your life at Hogwarts had become overwhelming. In your seventh year, you had so much homework to do, so many tests to take, so many friendships to maintain before you all graduated and went your separate ways. But the second the door to his lab slammed shut behind you, you found yourself in beautiful serenity. The hours spent in the dungeons, with him… they were like meditation by potion making. You didn't have to think about anything happening on the floors above you. It was just you, and him, and softly simmering cauldrons with shimmering fumes. Whenever you were with him, you felt safe and content. And no one else had ever given you that.

Admitting to yourself that you did, indeed, have a (_bloody_) crush on your Professor, had thankfully not hindered any of your interactions with him. You had _always_ been eager prove yourself, so you did not suffer from the typical bumbling of someone trying to impress. You were grateful to be skipping that stage of attraction. You also weren't naïve. Realistically, you knew that absolutely nothing would come from this. He was your professor, and you were his student. You weren't delusional; you knew that these feelings would never see the light of day. They certainly would never be returned. It was inappropriate at best, and immoral at worst. You just… didn't know how to love him. You knew you would never actively pursue these newfound feelings (_were they really so new?_), but you couldn't find it within yourself to suppress them either. It left you in limbo.

But somehow, you didn't feel badly about it. If limbo was the space between exquisite ecstasy and profound suffering, then… frankly, you didn't mind floating there. You cherished the time you got to spend with him, when the banter was easy, even if the study was intense. He would always be intertwined with your future, with the rest of your life, because he was teaching you the skills that would pave the way for it. You would happily settle for neutral, if it felt this peaceful and warm.

_Peaceful… Warm… when did it get so warm…? The dungeons were freezing it wasn't supposed to be…_

You sucked in a startled breath at the sound of your hourglass timer rattling on the table. Entire body jolting, you winced as you peeled your face off of the wooden surface it has been smooshed against. You blinked blearily, fumbling to reach out for the timer, to turn the blasted thing off, but your arms were tangled up and you couldn't move fast enough and-

The gentle press of a hand between your shoulder blades immediately settled your struggling, and you peered up uneasily as Snape leaned across the work table beside you. Silencing the hourglass with a wave of his hand, he plucked up a small dish of meticulously counted beetle eyes, and poured them into the nearby cauldron, where your Strengthening Solution turned from a pale, sky blue to a bright, vibrant turquoise. Staring dumbly at the faintly glowing potion, you put together what had just occurred, and you groaned with dismay.

"Have a pleasant nap?" Snape asked, his voice almost sing-songy with amusement as he patted your shoulder, before stepping back to the other side of the work table and perching himself on the stool beside yours. Groaning again, you made to bury your face in your hands, but your arms were still tangled up in copious amounts of black wool and _oh god_ he'd put his teaching robes around you. You stared down in bewilderment at the drape of black fabric cocooning you. Teakwood, clove bud, coriander. _Peaceful and warm… _

He really wasn't making this easy, was he?

"Why didn't you wake me?" you whined groggily, finally extracting one of your hands from its confines and rubbing your face. You could still feel the indentations and ridges from where you'd fallen asleep on the roughhewn wooden table. God, how long had you been out?

"If you were tired enough to pass out in the middle of a brewing session, I imagine you needed the rest," Snape replied easily, though there was now an edge of concern to his voice. Turning away from his own cauldron to face you, his arms crossed over his thin chest, he studied you with a critical eye. "If these private lessons are taking a toll on your health, I can arrange something else-"

"No!" you interrupted quickly, and Snape's eyebrows flew up his forehead at your vehemence. You hadn't meant to sound so zealous, but the last thing you wanted was for these lessons to end. "No I mean, they aren't. Taking a toll." You shrugged your shoulders, absently pulling his robes tighter around yourself, savoring the warmth. You had no intention of returning them any time soon. "Honestly, coming down here is the only thing I look _forward_ to anymore. It's… everything _else_…" You waved your one free hand in an all-encompassing motion, and he seemed to glean your meaning.

"They _are_ called Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests for a reason," Snape explained, and you grinned at the hint of sympathy in his voice. He was certainly speaking from experience. "Only a few more months, then you'll be free."

And just as quickly as your smile had appeared, it melted away. That was supposed to be encouraging, you knew. That the rigor of tests and school and academic obligation was nearing an end. But even in such light terms, it only served to remind you that your time left here was becoming short.

Snape frowned, his thick brows furrowing together as he leaned against the work table, dipping his head in an attempt to catch your eye. "If you ever need a night off…"

Your melancholy smile returned, touched by his concern, but you shook your head. "I don't know what else I would do with my Saturday nights," you teased, though you weren't even remotely lying. That was probably kind of sad, but it was the truth. There was no place you'd rather be. "But thank you, sir."

Snape eyed you doubtfully for a few moments longer, before sighing reluctantly. "Very well. But I insist that you tell me if it _does_ start having a negative impact on you." You nodded in agreement, and he returned it, before he uncrossed his arms and used his wand to _Accio_ a box of empty jars with cork stoppers from a crate across the lab. "Are you quite awake _now_, Miss Goode?"

Your smile widened, no longer sad, but pleased. "Yes, sir," you nodded, and you finally had to relent your grip on his robes. Slipping it from your shoulders, you shook out the dark raiment before holding it out to him.

Taking the cloak from your hands, Snape replaced it with the box of jars. "Splendid. Start bottling. Sprout needs those for Monday." Professor Sprout was in the process of cultivating some young Devil's Snare, and intended to give the Strengthening Solution to her unlucky students as a precaution. It seemed like a fair countermeasure, but wasn't just chilling out the best way to combat Devil's Snare? Not fighting against it? Either way, it wasn't _your_ class so you didn't really care. You just knew you had brewed the best damn Strengthening Solution of your life. Even if you'd fallen asleep during the simmering stage… woopsie.

You started uncorking several of the bottles as Snape strode towards the door, hanging his teaching robes up on a set of hooks affixed to the wall. "I think it's time we talk about March," he said suddenly, and you fumbled one of the bottles, hot-potatoing the glass as it nearly plummeted to the ground, before grasping it with both hands and clutching it to your chest. _God!_ Why did he always _do_ that?

Setting the jar down with trembling fingers, you held back the piece of your mind you were tempted to give him. "The Society meeting?" you asked, knowing that the clarification was pointless. That was the only thing happening in March, after all, and it was a scant three months away.

"Indeed. How very astute of you," Snape drawled, and you had to physically refrain from rolling your eyes, as he had returned to your side. Taking his place back on the stool beside yours, he cast a stasis spell over the potion he'd been brewing (_something experimental, he wasn't giving to details, yet_) before leaning an elbow on the table and placing his cheek in his hand. He watched you idly as you began to ladle globs of bright blue potion into the jars.

"Headmaster Dumbledore has informed me he has secured us two beds at the Atticus, all on the school's tab," he began, his voice businesslike and his expression bored. "And since the hotel is a stone's throw away from Kings Cross, we'll be taking the Hogwarts Express. We'll be leaving on Friday morning, arriving on the night before the meeting begins, and returning Sunday night after closing ceremonies. We should be back in time for classes to begin on Monday."

You frowned at this information, forcing a large cork stopper into the wide rim of the first jar. "Wouldn't it be easier to just Apparate?" you asked. It sure seemed like a lot of unnecessary logistics. It was going to take three days to attend a meeting that would last less than 48 hours? And almost two days' worth of that time would be spent on a train?

There was a long beat of silence, and you glanced over at your professor curiously. Snape seized his opportunity. "Do you know _how_ to Apparate?" he deadpanned, and your mouth fell open with an offended grunt.

"Of course I do!" you retaliated, and your ire only grew as one of his eyebrows crept further up his smug face. "You _know_ I passed my-"

"I'll rephrase the question," Snape countered dangerously, lifting his face from his hand and narrowing his eyes to slits. Your mouth snapped shut. "Do you know how to Apparate without _splinching_ yourself?"

Your hand unconsciously flew to your right ear. "That was _one_ time!" you protested, cupping your hand around the organ you had once accidentally left on the other side of the Great Hall, earrings and all.

It was his turn to roll his eyes, but Snape was very clearly fighting down his own mirth, a grin struggling to form on his lips. "We're taking the train," he said with a note of finality, and you deflated with a mopey frown. You turned away from him then, ladling potion with renewed vigor, and popping in corks so tightly that Professor Sprout was going to have a difficult time opening them manually. "Don't you _pout_ at me," he warned sternly, already fed up with your theatrics, which was a real _laugh_ coming from him. "Licensed or not, I'd prefer us both to get there in one piece, thank you."

You sighed, your cheeks burning red at his admonishment, but you nodded again, unenthusiastically. "Yes, sir," you mumbled, still sounding petulant. But Snape seemed pleased enough with your compliance, and didn't press you further.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Snape asked finally, starting to place the filled potion bottles into the box the empties had been stored in. There was only a few more bottles worth of potion left in the cauldron, and you took your time scooping it out as you considered his question. You'd been quite happy to let him and Dumbledore handle the whole thing. Your mother had indeed sent letters of permission to both the Headmaster and your Head of House, consenting both to the trip, as well as to allowing Professor Snape to be the one to accompany you. Despite your opposition to taking the train, in favor of testing your own Apparation abilities, you trusted all parties involved to make the right decisions for you. Really, the only thing you were worried about was… everyone else.

"Do you know who's going to be there?" you asked finally, sliding the next bottle over to him. Your fingers brushed as he took the jar from you, and you shivered a little. It… sure was cold in the dungeon.

"I can't say for sure," Snape replied thoughtfully, placing the bottle into the box absently as he mulled your question over. "I only ever attended one of these things in my youth." You frowned at that. The man was scarcely 30 if your calculations were correct, but he spoke as if his 'youth' had been a lifetime ago. "I was… disenchanted to discover that it's barely about potions and more about making and maintaining social connections. Not much use to me back then, but it should be invaluable to _you _now. All I know is that Horace Slughorn will be there, so I have no doubt that the guest list will be impressive. He tends to surround himself with the best of the best."

You shivered again, but not the result of an errant touch this time. You grimaced a little as you filled the final bottle, pressing in the cork and placing that one into the box yourself. "I don't mean to be offensive, sir," you started hesitantly, treading lightly. "But… Horace Slughorn kind of sounds like a creep." You were afraid that there was a chance that Snape and Slughorn were close, and you certainly didn't want to get on either of their bad sides.

But Snape barked out a short laugh, and your tension drained. Your smile was bordering on dreamy at the sight and sound of it, but you quickly sobered yourself up as he confirmed, "You aren't wrong." He waved his wand over your cauldron, banishing the dregs and _Scourgifying_ the rest. "However, I assure you that despite his favoritism and penchant for collecting people who may be useful to him, he's harmless."

You really weren't sure if this made you feel better or not. Just the words, 'collecting people', made you feel a little uncomfortable. Like maybe you hadn't been invited to this thing based purely on your raw talent. Maybe Slughorn was going to expect favors of you in the future, were you ever to make it big in the field. Not that that _mattered_, you certainly weren't entering into this for the recognition. But the idea that someone might think that you owe them anything for the contacts you were about to make seemed… unsavory to you. It made you all the more grateful that Snape was to be your chaperone.

"If you say so," you sighed, and pulled back the sleeve of your jumper, checking the thin oval shaped watch your mother had given you for Christmas a few weeks prior. Keeping track of time had become a major priority during your last school year, and the amethyst colored clock face told you that it was nearing midnight.

"I do say so," Snape retorted, and you glanced over to him with a tired smile. Tired from the length of the day, and tired of his _sass_. He nodded placatingly to you, before turning away and heading towards the door leading to his office, box of your Strengthening Solution still in his hands. You sighed with relief as you slipped off of your stool, knowing you had been dismissed for the evening. Stretching your arms above your head, you arched your body backwards, feeling your stiff bones pop with gratitude, and Snape made a small noise of disgust from his office. You laughed at his apparent revulsion, and considered cracking your knuckles as well, but it was too late to be goading him like this. Silently following him into his office, you bid each other goodnight, before parting your respective ways.


	9. Chapter 9 - Easy Dreamer

The sun had set on London by the time the Hogwarts Express finally pulled into Kings Cross station, and it was utterly disorienting to be standing on a deserted Platform 9 ¾ in the freezing darkness. Disembarking the Hogwarts Express was usually accompanied by the shouts and squeals of hundreds of other students, the eager waving of relieved parents, and the shining face of your mother as she called out to you from the crowd. There were warm embraces and tender moments of families reuniting. But on this gloomy, frigid March evening, where the snow had melted into dirty slush and the wind howled through the platform arches, all you had was your coat, your bag, and Professor Snape.

The train ride had been dreadful. Not that there was anything wrong with the company. Indeed, Snape had been a perfectly pleasant traveling companion; chatting when appropriate, followed by a comfortable silence as the conversation dwindled down. He'd read the Daily Prophet, then switched to a potions periodical, before abandoning reading all together to simply watch the countryside roll past. At one point he'd gone over your résumé with you, and had used a charm to create several copies, which you now had stowed in your bag, ready to hand out upon request. No, Snape had been the least of your worries. It was the goddamn waiting that had nearly driven you insane.

As mentally tough as you considered yourself to be, when it came to matters of your future, you were always extremely anxious. The fear that you weren't fit to do anything, either in the muggle or the magical world, was so crippling that it sometimes made you sick to your stomach. And the thought that you might manage to royally fuck up this weekend was a particularly nauseating one. You had tried to draw, to read, to study, with very little success in all three categories. You took an embarrassing number of trips to the lavatory, mostly as an excuse to get up and walk around the nearly empty train, but also because you constantly felt like you needed to pee. You knew it was just nerves, but it was better than sitting around and squirming in front of Snape, who blessedly had nothing to say about the matter. You really owed him so much for how often he just let you be a twit without comment.

Now that you were finally here though… you honestly didn't feel much better. You knew the sensation would pass once you _actually_ got there. Once things finally got started, your usual confidence would return. That was always the way, wasn't it? Spend days (_and weeks, and months_) anxious and worrying about a big event or appointment or test or something, but once it finally arrived, and then when it was over… You'd look back and wonder why you'd been so wound up in the first place. You were sure that would be the case this time… right?

The wind whipped at your hair, and you realized you were too cold to be worrying about it right this moment. You fumbled to do up the toggle buttons on your afghan coat as you followed after Snape, who was wasting no time making his way off of this godforsaken platform. While you had made an effort to wear muggle clothing for the journey, Snape hadn't bothered, his traveling cloak billowing behind him as dramatically as ever. But then again, it was London; there were odder fashion choices on every street corner. Stuffing your aching hands into the wool lined pockets of your coat, you fell into step beside your professor.

"Y-You said it wasn't f-far, right?" Your teeth were chattering, and your breath was misty in the frozen air. The night only grew colder as you departed from the well-lit train station. It wasn't that late, and there were still a fair amount of people out on the streets despite the cold; it was still a Friday night, after all. It probably wouldn't be in good form to attempt a warming spell in front of so many muggles…

"Not far at all," Snape replied easily, and you pouted as it appeared that he wasn't even affected by the chill. No wonder he'd opted to wear his Dracula cape; it was probably charmed against the cold as well as the rain. He had glanced over at your stuttering and shivering, and you didn't like the way he arched that stupid brow of his.

"You aren't _cold_, are you?" he asked, his voice so heavy with mock concern that you were momentarily speechless. You screwed up your features into the harshest glare your frozen face could manage, but really, you couldn't even be mad at him. Mostly you were mad at yourself, for wanting nothing more than to drape yourself in those warm woolen folds with his arm about your shoulder again… Okay, your face felt a little warmer, now. This is fine.

Snape huffed a little laugh, his breath puffing from between his lips. It was hard not to watch. "You were the one who insisted on muggle fashion over function," he chided, but as he did so, he lifted his hand and placed it delicately on top of your head. And almost instantly you were enrobed in permeating warmth, like slipping into a hot bath after being caught out in the rain. And you certainly hoped that it was his magic, and not merely the effects of his touch, that had you sighing with relief. His ability to use wandless magic never ceased to amaze you. "Better?" he asked quietly, and you nodded your confirmation as he pulled his hand away.

"Yes, thank you," you murmured, though you still kept your hands deep in your pockets. Warming charms didn't last forever, and you really hoped he'd been truthful when he said the hotel wasn't too far. Looking around to get your bearings, you were shocked to find yourself in a distinctly shabby part of town. There had been bright street lights and crowded sidewalks just moments before. But now… It rather reminded you of the side street the Hog's Head had been down; derelict buildings with boarded up windows and doors. Broken glass and overflowing rubbish bins littered the street, and you were passing an alleyway that was cordoned off with crime scene tape. That… _That_ was a little alarming, and you drifted closer to your professor, your arm bumping his as you glanced around anxiously.

"Nearly there," Snape promised you, and though you were thankful for the verification, it didn't make you feel any safer. Your wand was up your sleeve, and you were wondering how long it would take you to retrieve it from the layers of clothing under your coat. Perhaps sleeve concealment was not the best place to stow your wand, though you'd been doing it for years. Maybe that's why magic folk preferred cloaks and robes to jackets and coats. You were pondering the alternatives when Snape came to a halt beside you, and you immediately followed suit, peering up at the building before you.

Gazing at the façade, you physically blanched with a muted choking noise. The building looked condemned; crumbling bricks, rusted railing, shattered windows. There were faded, official looking 'Keep Out' and 'No Trespassing' signs every few yards, and the walls had been tagged with neon orange spray paint reading 'DEMO' in great big letters. The twisted coils of burnt out neon tubing hanging from the vertical marquee overhead read 'The Atticus,' much to your horror. This… was your hotel for the weekend.

Your face was white as you watched Snape ascend the short flight of stairs up to the main doors. Following cautiously, you stood close beside him, noting that the doors were, in fact, both chained _and_ padlocked. Bloody _fantastic_. But Snape seemed to know what he was doing, as he so often did, and after extracting his wand from his own sleeve (_show off_), he tapped at the lock in some sort of rhythmic pattern that reminded you of Morse code. And like watching a video in fast forward, the chain and padlock were suddenly dissolving into rust, falling from the door handles and clattering to the concrete steps. Not nearly as impressive as gaining access to Diagon Alley, but at least that was located behind an inn that _wasn't_ actively crumbling to the ground.

"There better be a five star hotel behind these doors," you whinged, glancing back over your shoulder at the silent, deserted street. No one had followed you. No one was even loitering. All of which you were grateful for, but none of which made you feel any more comfortable with the situation. You were already anxious; you didn't need to add 'being shanked inside of a burnt out hotel in bloody Camden' to your list of worries.

"Four stars, at least," came Snape's dry retort. You turned back around to find the door opened for you, and you were momentarily dazzled by what you found beyond the threshold. Where there had once been eerie, silent darkness before, there was now warm, golden light and the bustling sounds of friendly hospitality. It was utterly bizarre, to be seeing such an extravagant hotel lobby on the inside, while the outside appeared entirely decrepit. Even after nearly seven years, you were still amazed by magic sometimes. You couldn't help but smile widely, your apprehension melting away.

"I'd give it a solid four and a half," you teased, your demeanor brightening considerably as Snape ushered you through the doorway. He kept his hand on the small of your back as he led the way, and you were appreciative, because there was a distinct risk of getting lost in here.

The lobby of The Atticus was larger than seemed possible from the building's dimensions on the outside, but that was a typical magic thing, you guessed. Everything was scarlet, from the Persian rugs on the white marble floor to the velvet flocked wallpaper with elaborate floral patterns. And everything that wasn't red, was either deep mahogany wood, or pristine gold filigree. There was a lush embroidered carpet that ran the length of the room, marking the path from the front doors to the registration desk. On either side of this path were small sitting areas, plush leather armchairs clustered around low wooden coffee tables in front of ornate fireplaces, some of which had people stepping out of them at regular intervals. And nearly every one of these tables was occupied by a group of wizards, some of them smoking pipes and cigars, giving the lobby a hazy sort of feel through all the red and gold. You'd never been in a luxury hotel in your life, but four and a half stars felt like an understatement.

Snape did not tolerate your wonderment for long, leading the way through the lobby towards the registration desk, where a small line was formed. You wouldn't let his impatience dampen your curiosity though, as you peered around the large room, glancing at the faces of the various people, wondering how many of them were here for the Society meeting. They all appeared to be older men, which wasn't exactly surprising, but… maybe a little disappointing. Potions had never really struck you as being a 'man's world', but you were certainly outnumbered here. You saw very few female faces among the chattering guests. You tried not to worry about that. There was nothing to _be_ worried about. If potions was a male dominated field, then that was reason enough for you to be here, as it gave you even more to prove.

A slight pressure on your back made you realize you were dawdling again, and you stepped forward at Snape's insistence, his hand still firmly planted on your back, keeping you close. You relished the warmth of that simple touch, the way it grounded you to the present moment. It never made you feel uncomfortable, never suggested that his intentions were anything but pure. And you cherished that, because it made you feel safe. Cared for. You wondered if that's what it might have felt like, if you'd ever had a male figure to look up to when you were younger.

The line at the reception desk wasn't very long, but the people ahead of you already had impatient scowls on their faces. Both clerks behind the desk looked exhausted, and you couldn't help but feel bad for them; clearly the increased number of guests was taking its toll. You winced and looked away as one of the patrons at the front raised her voice to such a high pitch, you feared the ornate chandelier overhead might crash to the ground. You had no interest in watching the carnage.

To the left of the front desk were two fireplaces, and you got the impression that these were reserved specifically for making calls; a man in lilac robes was bent over on all fours, his head completely engulfed in bright green flame. Not the most dignified position to be in, especially in public, but he _did_ have a cute arse… You glanced away quickly, heat crawling up your face. _Way to be a creep, Gwen_. Just beyond the fireplaces was a set of bifolded glass doors with brass hinges, and while you instantly recognized them for what they were, you were utterly baffled as to what they were doing _here_. They were telephone boxes. Old fashioned ones by the looks of them. Beyond their glass windows you could see the antique looking telephones, with rotary dials and woven fabric chords and everything.

"Are those _real_ phone boxes?" you asked suddenly, looking up to your professor, and you were momentarily stunned to find a look of deep annoyance there. Your mind flew as you tried to determine what you could possibly have said or done to elicit such a reaction, but then you realized his eyes weren't on you at all. Rather, they were trained on the front desk, and the apparent showdown taking place between the haggard hotel employees and the disgruntled diva that was holding up the line. It seemed he'd barely even heard you.

"Are… _what_?" Snape blinked, returning his attention to you as his features morphed from irritation to confusion. You smiled sheepishly, and pointed over towards the glass booths, and it took him a moment longer to comprehend. "Oh. Well, of course they are," he frowned, looking back to you dubiously, as if severely questioning your intelligence. "What do you mean 'real' phone boxes? What else would they be?"

You narrowed your eyes at the harsh edge to his voice, but refrained from saying anything critical; his aggravation wasn't really with _you_. You did shrug your shoulders though, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "I don't know!" you exclaim, gesturing towards the glass doors. "It's not going to turn into an elevator or some nonsense if I go step into one?"

You thought this was a perfectly valid concern, and after a moment's consideration… Snape seemed to agree. "Fair point," he grumbled reluctantly before shaking his head, greasy tendrils swaying about his face. "But no, I don't believe they're anything more mundane than muggle telephone boxes." He pressed his eyebrows together, returning his attention to you. "Why do you ask?"

You hesitated then, the half formed thought you'd developed upon seeing the booths finally taking shape. Glancing down, you pulled back the sleeve of your afghan to look at your watch. It was sort of late, nearly 9 o'clock in the evening, but you were certain she'd still be awake, if she wasn't working. "I was thinking about calling my mother," you admitted finally, returning your eyes to his. "I promised her I would send an owl when we arrived, but if those are connected to actual phone lines…" Snape comprehended easily, nodding his approval of your idea, and you found yourself appreciative of your shared blood status once again. You had tried to explain how telephones worked to one of your pure-blood girlfriends a few years ago, and while she had managed to give you a ring over the summer, she had been speaking into the wrong end of the handset the entire time, and the conversation never got very far.

"Go ahead," Snape insisted, glancing up towards the front desk, where the diva was being sycophantically appeased by two managers who looked like they licked boots for a living. "We won't have our rooms for another hour at this rate," he growled with a heavy sigh before finally nodding his acquiescence, jerking his chin towards the glass doors. "Wait there for me when you're finished, alright?"

"Yes, sir!" you agreed eagerly, before slipping out of your place in the queue and walking towards the glass doors. Lilac Robes was still bent over in the fireplace, and you made a valiant effort not to glance down as you walked past him, though he was squirming around rather animatedly. There must have been quite a lively conversation happening on the other end of that Floo. Rubbing your hand over your face, you tried to discourage your grin and cool down your cheeks. _Get it together, Gwen._

Slipping into the booth, you sat down on the little bench before pulling the bifolded doors shut, when it abruptly became very quiet, the doors completely blocking out the noise of the lobby beyond. So maybe they _weren't_ perfectly muggle and mundane. That was fine by you though; the sudden silence was a welcome reprieve for your nerves. You were right in your assumption that the boxes were old fashioned. _Antique_ seemed like an even better word. But aside from the braided chord and rotary dial, most charming of all was a small, framed sign hanging from the wall, that gave explicitly detailed instruction on how to properly (_and politely_) use a telephone. Wizards were _precious_.

You required no instruction though, and you picked up the handset from the cradle, holding it to your ear and sighing with relief as you heard a dial tone. No need to deposit coins then. They truly were 'complimentary for all guests wishing to contact muggle friends and family', as was indicated by the sign. Though you don't think you'd ever used a phone with a rotary dial in your life, the automatic recall of your lifelong home number came quickly to your fingers. You took deep breaths in time with the ringback tone as it buzzed away in your ear. It _was_ a Friday night, and she was a bartender after all. Would she be working? She always got enough hours to make decent money, but she'd never had a consistent schedule. You wracked your brain, trying to remember the number for the pub-

A clatter from the other end of the line made you jump, but any fright dissolved instantly at the words, "This is Vivian." Your mother's voice was flat and impatient, which told you she was expecting to be called in to work against her will, and she was ready to put up one hell of a fight about it.

You smiled widely despite the cold greeting. It was just _so_ good to hear her voice. "Hi, Mum."

"_Gwen_?!"

And then you were laughing, delight bubbling up at the sudden shift of your mother's voice from tough determination to absolute shock. You nodded, but realized she couldn't see it, so you vocally confirmed, "Uh huh!"

"Oh my god, Gwen!" Now she was laughing too, her voice softening, the edges smoothed away by relief, not only to hear your voice, but also probably because you weren't her boss. If you closed your eyes, you could picture her in the sitting room of your flat, her mass of wavy brunette hair up in a messy clip, wearing her long flannel pajamas with little sheep on them that she saved for the winter months, along with a crocheted blanket around her shoulders, the one she'd cobbled together out of scraps of yarn from other projects, so that it was an absolutely absurd mix of colors and textures in neat little zigzags. You could hear music in the background, so she was probably listening to records instead of watching television. And if she was listening to _records_… She was probably baked into next Tuesday. No wonder she had no desire to go into work. Typical Viv.

Both of your giggles tapered off after a few moments, and your mother sighed happily, apparently just as pleased as you were at hearing her voice. "I've been waiting for an owl to peck at the kitchen window all night," she explained, and you could hear her moving around through the speaker. "But this is _way_ more convenient." The music suddenly swelled as she seemed to near the record player (_Beethoven? She must have been anxious_), before the volume was turned down low, and she instantly launched into mom-mode. "Where the hell are you _calling_ from? Are you in London? Are you at the hotel? How was the trip? Tell me _everything_!"

You were giggling again, and you tried to remember all of her questions as you compiled your answers. "Yes, I'm in London. And I'm calling you from, get this, an antique telephone box, inside of the most luxurious hotel I've ever seen in my life. They've got them for guests who want to call their muggle relations, but it's like sitting inside of a time machine. It's got a rotary and everything." You distractedly ran your fingers over the curve of the dial, slotting the pad of your thumb into each of the little finger holes. "It's really beautiful here. I wish I could take pictures or something to show you. I'd suggest visiting sometime but… let's just say, I'm really glad the school is picking up the bill." You shook your head. You were rambling, but you imagined your mother nodding along with you on the other end of the line. "Oh, and the trip was _dreadful_. I felt like I needed to pee the whole time. It was the _worst_."

You hear soft giggles from the other line, and you rubbed your face in shame. "Aw, Pumpkin, _come on_," she admonished, and you smiled at the nickname. You always liked 'pumpkin'. "You're gonna do _fine_. Attend a couple of lectures with a bunch of old fuddy-duddies, and then blow them away at that party tomorrow night. Your sunny aura is going to shine _so_ bright. Among _other things_." Her voice dropped conspiratorially at this last suggestion. You could practically hear her waggling her eyebrows. "Did you get the dresses?"

You groaned, dropping your face into your free hand as you did so. Your cheeks felt red hot beneath your fingers. "Mum, I'm looking for a _job_, not a _husband_." Sliding your hand away from your face, you instead rubbed the back of your neck as you peered through the glass panes of the door. Snape had finally made it to the front desk, but he didn't look particularly happy. Not that he ever did. "But… Yes. I got the dresses. I decided to go with the green one."

"So conservative," she teased. "But I suppose it was always your favorite. I think I still have a photo of you playing dress up in it when you were five or something." You cringed slightly, knowing that your face was also smeared with red lipstick and black eyeshadow in that picture. "I wore that dress to a winter formal when I was seventeen too, you know."

"I'm eighteen now, mum" you reminded her, and smiled widely at her agonized sigh. A smile which disappeared instantly as you caught sight of Snape stalking towards you, an absolutely murderous look on his face. Your breath caught in your throat, and you cupped your free hand around your mouth and the receiver. She was muttering something about never reminding her of her age, when you cut her off. "Hey, I've got to go. Looks like Professor Snape has our rooms, so I should probably get going."

"Okay, Sugarpie," she sighed dramatically again, but her voice was still laced with relief at having heard from you at all. "Thanks for calling me. I'm working the rest of the weekend, so ring me at the pub if you've got a chance, alright? You remember the number?"

Damn. No. You _didn't_ remember the number. But Snape was hovering outside the door now, and you could _feel_ the seething hatred radiating off of him from behind the glass. "Yeah, of course," you lied. "I think the weekend will be pretty jam-packed, but I'll try to call again before we leave on Sunday. If not, I'll send you an owl when I get back to Hogwarts, okay?"

"Alright, Honeybun…" She didn't sound too pleased with your non-commitment, but relented all the same. "Have fun this weekend, and be safe. I love you, Gwen." And even having Snape standing so close, with so much displeasure seeping off of him, you couldn't fight back your smile from the warmth of her words.

"I love you too, mum," you said quietly, and you sat there a few moments longer, even as you heard the click from the other end, followed by the persistent buzz of a call interrupted. Finally hanging up the handset, you took a deep breath, trying to hold on to the steadying calm that hearing your mother's voice had brought you. You allowed that calm to fortify your nerves as you stood to face whatever inconvenience had befallen your professor, and probably yourself. Sliding the bifold doors open, you stayed standing in the tiny room as Snape turned to face you from where he stood beside the door. "What's wrong?" you asked quickly, a frown deepening on your face, matching his own scowl.

Snape looked slightly taken aback by your abruptness, but quickly realized that his expression must have been quite transparent. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he closed his eyes in an attempt to set his features back into neutral territory. You took the opportunity to step out of the telephone box, sliding the door shut behind you as you stood before your professor. "When Dumbledore told me that he had reserved two beds, I had been under the impression that he had meant _two rooms_."

This confession hung in the air like a lead balloon, and it crashed to the ground just as quickly as you understood exactly what he meant. And in all of your years of blushing in front of your professor, none had ever been quite as profuse as the one scalding your face right now. "I'm… guessing the two beds are in the _same_ room?" you clarified stupidly, and Snape removed his fingers from his nose, glaring down at you quietly. Right. Duh. "Does the hotel have no other vacancies?" you tried hesitantly, trying not to further incur his wrath.

"They're full up," Snape hissed, his words clipped as he turned his glare back out to the groups of witches and wizards clustered about in the lobby, as if they were personally responsible for this mishap. "Not surprising, as this is a popular event. But Albus made these arrangements _months_ in advance. I don't understand why that meddling old fool would-" He seemed to catch himself, and his hand returned to his face, rubbing his forehead agitatedly as he took a heavy breath. "I understand that the situation is less than ideal. I can try to find other accommodations for myself somewhere nearby-"

"What!? Why?" you cut in quickly, your eyes widening with the beginnings of panic. Was he really about to _leave the hotel_ so that you could have the room to yourself? He looked over to you uncertainly, and though you were positive your face was still feverishly red, your features were quite serious. "The whole point of you coming with me was so I wouldn't have to be here _alone_." You glanced around the lobby yourself, and your blush finally began to recede at the idea of being left on your own. There were so many people, people you didn't _know_, and while you took no issue being around strangers, the very last thing you wanted was to be stuck here without _someone_ who had your back. "You said the room has separate beds, right?" Your crossed your arms over your chest defensively, looking down at the space of red carpet between your boots. "I don't see what the problem is."

There was a pause, one that lasted longer than necessary, and you knew he was doing _the thing_. You closed your eyes and sighed petulantly, quite on purpose in order to express your irritation, before opening them again and meeting his eyes with your own narrowed ones. His brow was arched to truly worrisome heights, and this time his glower really _was_ for you. "Really?" he asked, his voice dripping with condescension. "You _don't_ see what the problem is?"

You sighed with exasperation and threw your hands up. "I don't care!" you professed, reaching the peak of your frustration. "I'm an adult. I'm not worried about how it might look or whatever. Besides, Dumbledore made the reservations himself. Obviously _he_ trusts you. And I…" You swallowed thickly, your fervor simmering down to something more subdued. "I trust you, too. You've never given me any reason _not_ to trust you." You let your hands fall back down, fidgeting with the wooden toggles of your coat. "I just don't want to be here by myself. _Please_." You glanced back up at him, a little afraid to let him peer into your head if that was his intention. But you just put your desire to have your chaperone close by at the forefront of your mind. "I promise, I don't care. Even if you snore or something."

Your poor attempt at humor had the desired effect, as Snape dropped his head with a snort. He proceeded to rub at his forehead, clearly taking his time to process your request. You knew you were asking a lot. Snape probably wasn't expecting to be the one most uncomfortable with the idea. He clearly thought _you_ would be the one to insist he buzz off somewhere else for the next two nights, and maybe he was right. Maybe you should have been more concerned about rooming with a male teacher. But you stood by your conviction; you were an adult, by all accounts, and you trusted him _so_ explicitly, you had no doubt in your mind that he would do nothing to betray that trust. You'd been building it for almost seven years now. He wasn't going to hurt you. He was going to keep you safe.

"Dumbledore _did_ make the reservation," Snape muttered quietly, seemingly to himself, and you nodded in agreement. That was like, extra insurance or something. A third party was aware of the situation, and that third party was Albus freakin' Dumbledore. Snape sighed heavily, and reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a key hanging from a braided golden tassel. Holding two ends of the tassel between his fingers with both hands, he pulled them sharply apart, and the tassel magically split into two, with a key dangling from each of their ends. It was like watching a _muggle_ magic trick, and you smiled in appreciation as he held out one of the keys to you. "We're in room four-twelve," he informed you, his voice still hesitant, but you took the key from him gratefully, slipping it into the pocket of your afghan. "Do you want to call your mother back? Inform her of the situation as well…?"

He sounded entirely disinclined to even make the suggestion, but the fact that he was suggesting it at all was reason enough for you to believe that it was unnecessary, because it was clearly meant to make _you_ feel more comfortable. You shook your head, a small smile on your lips as he gazed down at you reluctantly. "It's alright. I'm sure she'd be fine with it." And that was no exaggeration, either. That woman was too perceptive, and you already suspected that she knew too much. There was no question of where you'd gotten it from as a child.

Snape released one last withering sigh, before seeming to accept the circumstances he found himself in. "Let's head up then," he suggested wearily, and you felt sort of bad for your insistence now. Despite any affection you held for the man, your intentions _were_ pure. You didn't see this as an opening to be alone with him; indeed, you'd had that opportunity every Saturday evening for the last seven months. You truly just didn't want to be alone at this function, and you weren't perturbed by the idea of sharing sleeping quarters with him. However… you understood how bad this would look for him, if anyone were to question the arrangement. You decided not to make a big deal out of it, and if anyone asked, you would remind them that you were an adult, and your relationship with him was purely professional. You'd insist to anyone who challenged it that Snape was a goddamn gentleman. It wouldn't even be a lie.

Following blindly behind your professor through the lobby, you actually plowed right into his back as he came to an abrupt halt. You had been so lost in your thoughts that you were completely disoriented by the sudden stop, but it only lasted for a moment, before you heard a gruff voice call out, "Severus, my boy!"

You could actually feel the muscles of Snape's back tighten under your hands, and you quickly pulled yourself away from him, taking a step back and to the side to peer around him at the approaching owner of the voice. And try as you might not to openly gape, you were sure your eyes were wide at the sight of this odd, fat little man. If you'd thought the phone boxes were a blast from the past, this man had been transported from even further back, if his enormous moustache and wardrobe choices were any indication. That was an honest to god velvet smoking jacket he looked ready to burst out of, not to mention the matching slippers. Slippers! In a hotel lobby! The only thing missing was a cane and a top hat, and he'd be the monopoly guy.

You were wondering who had the balls to be calling your professor 'my boy', when Snape extended his lean hand out to the man's chubby one, where they met in a firm handshake. "Professor Slughorn," Snape greeted cordially, and you nearly choked on your sudden gasp, coughing into your elbow in a poor attempt to disguise it. _This_ was Slughorn? This balding, velvet lined walrus of a man? _Goo goo g'joob_? To think you'd been worried about _him_. He looked like the rich, eccentric uncle that nobody in the family talked about anymore. You could totally handle this guy.

You stood politely to the side and watched as Slughorn clapped his other hand over Snape's, patting it genially. "Oh please, I'm not a professor of anything anymore. Call me Horace." He spoke as if he and Snape were old friends, but the cold stoniness of Snape's face suggested that this familiarity was only one sided. Snape finally extricated his hand, covertly wiping it on the hip of his frock coat as Slughorn continued to prattle. "I've been enjoying my retirement thanks to you! But I must say, I wasn't expecting to see you here. I believe you haven't attended a meeting since you graduated, correct?"

Snape appeared mildly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but answered politely all the same. "Indeed. It was… never really my scene, as you can imagine. However, I must confess I am not here on my own account." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, which meant you could no longer eavesdrop from behind his shoulder. Taking the hint, you sheepishly stepped around to stand beside him, and he held out his hand in your direction, as if presenting you to an esteemed panel of judges. "I'm chaperoning Miss Gwendolyn Goode."

You swallowed anxiously, not only because you were suddenly faced with the man you could possibly owe your future career to, but also because you were quite certain that was the first time Snape had ever said your first name out loud. Your heart fluttered rapidly, but you were given little time to savor the moment, as Slughorn turned his attention to you, as if noticing your presence for the first time. And you were pleased to find his expression to be one of sheer delight.

"Ah-ha! So you're the potions prodigy I've heard so much about." Slughorn held out a meaty paw, and you took it graciously as he shook your hand with both of his. You were almost a full six inches taller than him, you realized as you peered down into his pink, whiskery face, while Snape towered him by a foot. "I'm Horace Slughorn, my dear. It's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you in person."

"Likewise!" you exclaimed cheerfully. And you found that you didn't even have to force it like you feared you might. Slughorn's merriment was oddly infectious, and you couldn't help but be flattered by his words. _Prodigy_? Since when? "Thank you so much for the invitation. It's truly an honor to be here."

"Not at all, my girl! Not at all!" Slughorn patted your hand much like he did Snape's (_was it his signature move_?) before finally releasing it, instead gripping the lapels of his burgundy smoking jacket. You resisted the urge to wipe your hand off on your coat, as you didn't have a nice Dracula cape to conceal the slight like _some_ people. "When Albus told me of your impressive O.W.L. score, I knew you'd be a right shoo-in for the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers." He winked with his gooseberry green eyes, before leaning in conspiratorially. "Been working on that résumé like I suggested?"

"Yes sir!" A little thrill shot through you, a shiver of both anticipation and dread, as you pulled open your messenger bag to retrieve one of the copies Snape had made for you. Would it be enough? You'd worked so hard these past months, mastered so many potions that would make the other seventh year's heads spin. Would it impress your potential future employers? Would it impress _Slughorn_? This would be the first test, wouldn't it? You held out the sheet of parchment with all of your achievements and credentials (_Snape had insisted on parchment, as it was more traditional_), before proudly explaining, "I've been apprenticing under Professor Snape all year."

The pleased look on Slughorn's face as he took hold of your résumé suddenly morphed into one of utter shock at your words. "Apprenticing?" he asked, sounding nearly gob smacked as he turned from you to Snape, who stood casually nearby with his arms folded across his chest, watching the entire exchange carefully. "I didn't know you took on apprentices, Severus." You had to hold back a laugh, because frankly you had felt the exact same way when Snape had first made the suggestion to you last September.

Snape for his credit did not miss a beat, as if expecting this criticism. "I don't. But Miss Goode is a phenomenally talented witch," he explained coolly. "I'd yet to have a student worthy of the position before she came along. She has exceeded all expectations." Ah, yes good. You were blushing again. Wonderful. Hearing his unadulterated opinion of you never failed to make your head spin, but at least you weren't bursting into tears this time, like you usually did when he praised you like this. You were still deeply touched by his honesty though. And it was obviously making you look good.

Slughorn looked quite impressed with this profession, and his earlier shock was once more replaced with an elated smile as he turned his attention back to you. "Well, my girl, that sounds like a ringing endorsement to me!" he chortled, beaming down at the parchment you'd provided, before peeking towards your bag. "Mind if I have a few more of these? I'd be happy to hand them out on your behalf."

Oh, you hadn't been expecting that. Was… that a good idea? Or was that just going to indebt you to this man even further? Glancing over to Snape for confirmation, he shrugged a sharp shoulder before nodding once, and you sighed with relief. See? This was why you _needed_ him here! Opening your bag, you pulled out a few more pages of parchment, before holding them out for Slughorn to take. "Thank you very much, sir," you sighed appreciatively, practically breathless with your gratitude.

Slughorn smiled up at you as he folded the papers in half, sliding them into an inner pocket of his jacket. "Please, it's Horace!" he insisted, and you nodded your agreement, but knew you were going to keep calling him 'sir.' "Now, Severus, are you all checked in yet?" he asked, suddenly sounding much more businesslike than before. Snape even looked somewhat apprehensive at the shift in tone. "I've got a few past members of the Slug Club rounded up for a drink in the bar. Even the Malfoy's are-"

But you never got to hear what the Malfoy's were, as Slughorn was interrupted by the abrupt call of a new voice, one that you could only accurately describe as _smarmy_.

"My word, is that Severus Snape, or do my eyes deceive me?"

Everyone collectively turned towards the owner of the voice, and your face burnt scarlet as you watched Lilac Robes approaching from the direction of the fireplaces. Oh, god damn it. He was _handsome_ too. He looked like he'd just stepped out of an Oscar Wilde novel, with his cupids bow mouth, dazzling blue eyes, and perfectly coiffed golden hair. You swallowed thickly; he was an artist's _dream_, and you surreptitiously looked him up and down as he sauntered over. It was clear by the flawless grin on his face and the way that he carried himself in those impeccably bespoke robes that he _knew_ he was gorgeous too. The only blemish to mar his perfect façade was a smudge of black ash on his (_beautifully sculpted_) cheekbone. He _had_ been bent over in that fire for an awfully long time…

He was the absolute antithesis of Severus Snape, and you were left wondering how these two men could possibly know each other.

"…Lockhart," came Snape's stony reply, and it took your brain an embarrassingly long time to give this name meaning because… what the hell? Lockhart? As in _Gilderoy _Lockhart? As in six time Dailey Prophet Best Seller Gilderoy Lockhart? As in Jesus tap-dancing Christ how did you not _recognize_ him Lockhart? He was only on the front cover of every single one of his books. Of _course_ he was Gilderoy Lockhart! In your own defense though, the real thing was just so much more _vivid_ than those sepia toned dust jackets could ever suggest. It was a crime to photograph this man in only black and white. Snape had said that Slughorn liked to surround himself with the best of the best, but you hadn't been expecting a goddamn magical _celebrity_. Despite being utterly star-struck, you were still deeply confused as to _how the hell these two knew each other_.

Snape remained entirely motionless as Lockhart came to a stop beside him, clapping a perfectly manicured hand onto Snape's boney shoulder and greeting him like a childhood friend. "Good to see you again, old boy!" Lockhart exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear as Snape's eyes slid over to the hand on his shoulder, his face lined with contempt. "I say, I don't know whether to greet you as my old school chum or as my Potions professor!" Lockhart continued, giving Snape's shoulder a brotherly pat. "I suppose not many could say they've had the pleasure of having you as both!"

Your eyes volleyed back and forth between Lockhart and Snape, and the depths of your disorientation only intensified at this bizarre proclamation. They'd gone to school together? You supposed that made sense, though it was clear that Lockhart was a good deal younger than your professor. Indeed, young enough that at some point Snape had actually been his professor as well. You tried to do the math, but Slughorn had apparently found his opportunity to insert himself back into the conversation.

"Ah yes, that's right!" Slughorn exclaimed, only looking a touch surprised by Lockhart's declaration. "I left before your final year at Hogwarts didn't I, Gilderoy?"

"Indeed you did, Old Sluggy!" Lockhart confirmed with a melodious chuckle. "Indeed you did. And while leaving your N.E.W.T. students in Severus' completely capable hands was a difficult transition after years of your excellent instruction, I still passed the class with flying colors!" He winked to no one in particular, and Snape looked moments away from gnawing off the hand that was still firmly gripping his shoulder. You feared that Lockhart would be lucky to escape this exchange with all of his fingers. "But listen to me, going on and on about myself. How are you _doing_, old chap?" he asked Snape, giving his shoulder an eager shake. But he didn't wait for a reply, nor did he seem to actually expect one, because suddenly his attention was on _you_. "And who, may I ask, is your lovely companion?"

Oh god. Oh _god_. You knew your face was highly colored by now, and everyone could _see_ it and this was _stupid_. You knew you shouldn't be so flustered but you were way out of your element. When you'd come to this hotel, you had been under the impression that the guests attending the meeting would all be _normal_ people. Sure, people you'd never met, but also people you'd probably never heard of. You'd scanned Snape's potions periodical on the train, mostly trying to memorize names under the published articles, considering the fact that you might very well be meeting some of them, and knowing their body of work would make a good impression. You could deal with fussy old professors and newly minted healers. You could handle normal people. But none of them had been Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile winner three year's running. And _god_, was it charming. Not to mention you'd been unabashedly staring at his arse earlier and _Gwen, please! Focus!_

Lockhart at least didn't seem the least bit perturbed by how obviously ruffled you were; maybe he was used to seeing it in other witches. Slughorn was watching with a quiet amusement that made you want to groan out loud in your embarrassment. And Snape… Well, Snape was making no move to answer Lockhart's question. Indeed, his earlier look of murderousness had returned, and all of that ire was trained directly at Lockhart, who had wisely removed his hand from Snape's vicinity at last. But now that hand was reaching out and taking yours. And now it was lifting your hand to his face. And now he was- oh god, oh my _god._

"Uhm. I'm. G-Gwendolyn Goode," you stuttered out pathetically as he kissed the back of your hand. You don't think any guy you'd ever fooled around with had done something like _that_, and it was a surprisingly effective move. His lips were a whisper of silk against your skin and you had to swallow hard to keep from making any embarrassing noises.

"It's an absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance," Lockhart all but purred, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as he kept hold of your hand. "I'm quite sure that _I_ need no introduction?" he teased with another wink, and you shook your head stupidly because no, no he most certainly did not. "I'm surprised to see such a fresh young face at an event like this! At least no faces younger than mine." And you couldn't help but agree with him. From what you'd glimpsed of the attendees and other guests, you were quite possibly the youngest person in the building. But that didn't mean you didn't belong here.

"I'm a seventh year at Hogwarts," you explained, becoming a little defensive. Despite being momentarily flabbergasted by Lockhart's presence, you still had a job to do here, and that was to impress everyone you came across. Your future could lay in the hands of any one of these people. Maybe even _this_ man... _That_ ridiculous train of thought was derailed at the sight of Snape glowering from over Lockhart's shoulder, and you quickly sobered up from your daze. "And I'm, um, Professor Snape's apprentice."

"Are you really?" Lockhart asked, his voice suddenly dropping its pretense of interest, jarring you slightly. He finally released your hand before glancing over his shoulder at Snape, one of his fine blonde eyebrows creeping up his forehead. "You must be _quite_ the gifted little girl then," he acclaimed, and just like that, the unctuous quality of his voice had returned. Looking back to you, that flawless grin was back on his face, and he sidled up to you, throwing one of his arms over your shoulders and leaning in furtively, though he spoke just as loudly as before. "I know from experience that Severus is no easy professor! But of course, I learned a great deal in my time at Hogwarts, and I earned my place here in the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. Just a few years ago I gave a lecture on an antidote I invented and perfected for a slow-acting venom I'd been stricken with in Romania. Though I'm sure _you_ read all about it in my second book, _Gadding with Ghouls_." He poked one of his fingers against your shoulder to mark his inflection, before waving the same hand dismissively. "Ah, but that was six whole books ago! Practically a lifetime. Will you be attending Horace's party tomorrow night?"

You were thrown off kilter by his sudden change in subject matter, as well as the arm that was still holding you firmly against his flank. You were overwhelmed with the scent of English Leather, and it was a little disappointing that you were able to pinpoint the fragrance so acutely, because it smelled cheap and dated. Surely Lockhart had better taste than drugstore aftershave? You must have appeared bemused, because Slughorn answered the question for you by proudly piping in, "Yes! She's got an invitation."

"Splendid!" Lockhart professed, before patting your shoulder genially and finally releasing you from his hold. "Well, I have got to be off," he spoke generally this time, straightening out his robes and vest unnecessarily. "Can you _believe_ they misplaced my room reservation? I've been chewing out my assistant over the Floo for the last 10 minutes. So hard to find good help these days." He moved to Slughorn then, taking up the man's hand for a shake, before patting it in a mirror image of what Slughorn tended to do himself. "I'm afraid I'll have to miss the lectures tomorrow, Horace, but I'll certainly be back for your little shindig tomorrow night. Wouldn't miss it for the world!" He returned his attention back around to you, and hit you with another wink and brilliant smile. "And I look forward to seeing _you_ again, Guinevere."

Your face fell flat along with your voice as you corrected, "Gwendolyn."

But he hadn't even heard you as he made his way importantly towards the front doors of the hotel, throwing a "Ta-ta!" over his shoulder and disappearing into the crowd. He hadn't even so much as _looked_ at Snape before exiting, and you were all left in an uncomfortably awkward silence at his sudden departure. You weren't sure how to feel just then, having gone from awe-struck to uneasy in a matter of moments.

"We should be getting to our rooms now." You jumped slightly, looking over to your professor, and you felt your heart plummet at the sight of the scornful lines still etched into his face. It didn't take a genius to guess that Snape was no Gilderoy Lockhart fan, but you felt like… well… you just wondered if maybe you had contributed to that disdain. Was he mad at you? Was he mad at Lockhart on your behalf? Or was he…

"Yes, yes! Of course!" Slughorn bustled, nodding with understanding as he stepped aside, no longer standing in the way of your path towards the elevator. "You two get settled in. But do consider coming down for that drink, Severus. I'd love to catch up with you." He patted Snape's elbow in a considerably more genuine gesture than Lockhart had managed to pull off, before turning to you. "And Miss Goode! I'll see you tomorrow morning for the first lecture, yes? Damocles Belby will be here to talk about the advancements he's made with his lycanthropy potion. It should be _riveting_."

You weren't sure if Slughorn was being facetious, but your eyes actually lit up upon hearing this. You'd been following the work of Damocles Belby ever since you'd skimmed that potions magazine in your fifth year. Any trepidation that had built up from your interaction with Lockhart seemed to evaporate at the news that you might actually get to _meet_ Belby. "Yes, sir! I'll definitely be there."

Slughorn smiled amiably, before nodding both to you and Snape with a cordial, "Good night, you two," before making his way towards what you expected was the bar. Silence settled around you again, and it was only the flutter of black from the corner of your eye that alerted you that Snape was stepping onto an elevator without you. You spun and walked quickly in order to catch up with him, and your heart sank again as you glimpsed the dour expression that remained on his face. He seemed… really upset. Your anxiety continued to rise as you slipped into the elevator beside him, and you were left in true silence when the doors slid shut.

You watched the little arrow on the floor indicator slowly pivot from 'L' to '1', and the tension in the small space was making you feel queasy. If you didn't say something, you were going to be sick. "You don't like Lockhart?" you asked quietly, a question that was clearly more of a statement. You didn't look over at him after asking, keeping your eyes firmly on the arrow above the door, because you were apprehensive about what you might see.

There was a pause. '1' to '2'. '2' to… "He barely scraped by his Potions N.E.W.T.'s with an Acceptable," Snape answered monotonously, almost sounding bored, and you pressed your eyebrows together in confusion. He's… mad because Lockhart over exaggerated about his grades? "In fact he barely got an Acceptable in _all_ of his classes at Hogwarts," Snape continued, and you finally did glance over to him then. His eyes were also trained on the floor indicator above the door, but his glare was still firmly in place, and his disdain was palpable. "He was unremarkable and painfully average in every single thing that he did. Which is why I remain utterly baffled by, and critically skeptical of, his success."

Your mouth fell open slightly as you watched him, and you got the sneaking suspicion that Snape was _jealous_. You looked away from him then, down at your boots, and pondered this development. There of course was the chance that Lockhart had been a poor student. That didn't mean he hadn't absorbed any information over the course of his education. Hollingsworth was a good example of this; he wasn't a bad brewer at all, as long as Snape wasn't actually in the room at the time. Indeed, Lockhart had an impressive body of published works outlining his many successful ventures, some of which you'd actually read. And sure, a great deal of it was _also_ probably exaggerated, as extravagance seemed to be one of Lockhart's favorite things. But taking a little literary liberty to pad the pages of a book wasn't a crime, right? You'd never gotten the impression that success and acclaim was something Snape cared about. Indeed, he actually made a valiant effort to _ensure_ that no one liked him.

So… maybe he was jealous about something else.

The elevator came to a halt, the grates sliding open smoothly, and you followed Snape through them onto the fourth floor landing. The décor mirrored that of the lobby, all lush carpets and flocked wallpaper and exquisite paintings, but it did not share the lobby's scarlet hue. Instead, everything on this floor was cerulean, and the shift in color palette alone made you feel calmer than before. You wondered if the other floors were different colors as well. You might have to explore later. Following Snape down to room four-twelve, you pulled back the sleeve of your coat and sighed through your nose as you checked your watch. It had gotten late, and you were dead tired. But you were also starving. You were wondering if the hotel had room service when you realized Snape wasn't moving. Wincing slightly, you turned your face to his, where you were pleased to find that his distain had vanished, but it was now replaced with apprehension.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, point blank, holding up his golden tasseled key.

Oh… Oh right. You were still sharing a room. That was a thing that never stopped being a thing. You did your best not to mirror his trepidation, instead managing a little smile before nodding. "Yes. I'm sure. I haven't changed my mind in the last twenty minutes. I promise." Snape's uneasiness morphed instantly into exasperation, and you covered your mouth you mask your snickers as he rolled his eyes, turning back toward the door. He slid the key into the lock, and you wondered if anything odd or magical was about to happen... and were a little disappointed to see that it was just a normal lock. Boring.

You followed Snape into the room, and the first thing you noticed was that it was dreadfully cold. That warming charm from earlier must have worn off, and you pulled your coat tighter around yourself as Snape went about turning on lanterns and charming a fire into the fireplace. Thank god. As promised, the room did indeed have two beds, and you quickly laid your claim to the one closest to the window (_and the fireplace_), tossing your messenger bag onto to the duvet before moving over to the fire in an attempt to warm yourself.

You took a quiet moment to scan your surroundings. It was a beautiful room, just as lavish as the rest of the hotel. The carpet was a deep navy, and the space around the fireplace was sparkling marble. The walls were a standard cream color, but the oil paintings of oceans and ships continued the lovely blue motif, as did the copper patina ceiling tiles. The beds themselves looked unbelievably welcoming right now; large and plush with cobalt quilted duvet covers and multitudes of down pillows. There was a small night table between the two beds, a writing desk across from them, and back towards the entrance were two doors that must lead to the closet and bathroom. Oh god, a hot shower sounded good too…

Snape was removing his traveling cloak, and had enlarged a shrunken black leather weekender, which he'd placed on his own bed and was now stuffing the cloak into. "I… think I'm going to take Slughorn up on that drink," he explained stiltedly, and your face fell a little, but you nodded. You tried not to feel slighted, that he wanted to turn around and leave already, but you thought you understood. Maybe he was uncomfortable with the whole situation. Maybe he feared that _you_ were uncomfortable with the whole situation. Maybe he was still seething over the exchange with Lockhart. Whatever it was, you didn't mind if he went and got a drink; maybe it would loosen him up.

Snape made his way to writing desk beside the fire, picking up a thin, blue book, with the words 'The Atticus, Amenities' stamped in gold onto the leather cover. He held it out to you, and you took it curiously before he explained, "Room service. Get something for dinner. And order absolutely anything you want, regardless of price. Dumbledore is paying for everything, and I am more than happy to _make him pay_." Your eyes widened as you flipped open book, a grin spreading over your face at this phenomenal act of pettiness. Good to know that Snape hadn't lost the ability to properly handle a minor inconvenience in the sassiest way possible.

"Yes, sir!" you assured him with a small salute. Walking over to your bed, you sat down with a bounce as you scanned the menu, but you weren't really gleaning much from it as you watched Snape adjust his frock coat in the mirror attached to the closet door. "Will you be late?" you asked, trying to gauge how much time you might have to indulge yourself. You were thinking fish and chips, and then a shower, before finally passing out for the evening. Maybe you could be in bed before he even came back, sparing you the embarrassment of revealing your own yellow and black flannel pajamas with the little bees on them that your mother had given you because they were just so Hufflepuff. Yeaaaah. That sounded perfect.

"I might be," Snape answered honestly, which you appreciated. "The…" he swallowed, and twitched his head awkwardly, as though he was loath to say what he had to say. "The _Slug Club_ was Slughorn's group of exceptionally talented or well-connected students back when he taught at Hogwarts," he explained, and you set the small book in your lap as he now had your full attention. What an awful name for a club! "He mentioned that the Malfoy's might be here. They're… old friends of mine so… who knows how long this could go on for."

Silence ensued, and this time, you were the one who managed to get Snape to look at _you_ before you were inclined to speak. Your mouth was hanging open, shock apparent in your features as he turned to face you. "_What?_" he demanded, his frown deepening.

"You… You have _friends_?" you asked in mock awe, but you couldn't keep up the charade for long. You squealed with laughter as you held up the amenities booklet as a shield, just as a decorative throw pillow was magically hurled in your direction.


	10. Chapter 10 - Dozey

**Authors Notes:** I'm going to start adding notes at the top of chapters now. I hadn't meant for this to be a transitional chapter, but it's taken me too long to write, and the next chapter is going to have a lot going on. I figured I could publish this bit as a standalone. I'm sorry for the delay. I promise, the next chapter will be quite action packed.

The next chapter is also going to be… intense. It's going to have trigger warnings, and the rating will go up because of them. I'm mentioning it here so that you can know ahead of time. If you have any questions or concerns about it, please feel free to message me on Tumblr and we can discuss it.

000

You weren't sure where you had gotten the idea that attending this event was going to be a breeze (_mother_), but you regretted _everything_ as you slumped against the counter in your hotel bathroom, perched on the lid of the toilet as you attempted to do your makeup in a blusher compact mirror. After a day of endless lectures and luncheons, all you wanted to do was take a bloody _nap_. But the schedule of proceedings had been so rigorous that there just wasn't any _time_; you had to be downstairs for Slughorn's party in less than an hour, and you needed to make yourself look like you weren't totally sleep deprived. You wish you knew some beautifying charms, but Rimmel concealer and kohl would have to do.

The major contributor to your exhaustion was the amount of sleep you'd gotten last night, which was to say, absolutely fuckin' _none_. Your night had gone almost exactly as planned. After Snape had left for his apparent _Slug Club_ reunion, you'd ordered room service as instructed (_apparently just by speaking into the book_?), before passing the time waiting for it by doodling your new acquaintances in your sketchbook. Slughorn took to being caricatured quite well, but Lockhart had been a little more difficult to render as anything but beautiful.

Before long, your dinner magically appeared on the writing desk; an absurdly large platter of fish and chips, along with a butterbeer and a complimentary scoop of chocolate ice cream that had been charmed not to melt. Which was convenient because you'd decided to eat it while lounging in the luxurious claw footed tub you had been overjoyed to find in the bathroom. It came equipped with taps that dispensed frothy rose scented bubbles, as well as water charmed to stay at the temperature you wanted it, which for you, was absolutely scalding. _Perfection_. After your soak, you'd given yourself a proper wash in the separate shower, before bundling yourself up in your embarrassing bumblebee pajamas and settling into bed.

Despite how exhausted you had been after a full day of travel and trivialities, when you finally got to crawl into that inviting blue ocean of pillows and duvets… sleep had eluded you. It was at this point you'd realized there was something missing from this flawless hotel experience; a television. Not that there was anything in particular you'd wanted to watch, but a TV would make for a convenient night-light, as well as provide quiet, droning background noise. The guttering fireplace was a poor consolation for both. In the dim light of the dying embers, you had stared at the empty bed across the room, and with nothing to distract your mind, it wandered into the realm of disquiet.

You had replayed the events of the evening over and over in your head, but they inevitably came back around to your encounter with Gilderoy Lockhart. And how murderous Snape had looked throughout the entire exchange. Snape had claimed that he was critical of Lockhart's success, but that had not been the face of a teacher who was skeptical of a cheating student. That had been the face of a man who had walked in on his cheating _wife_… and was ready to kill her _lover_.

But that was all speculation, of course. There was absolutely no evidence to support it, and you were probably just seeing what you wanted to see. And apparently what you wanted to see was Snape being jealous over _you_. You tried to tell yourself that it made sense; certainly that it made more sense than being jealous of another man's achievements. But even if it did make sense… Even if it were true that you were the source of his envy, what would that _mean_ for you? If your affections were somehow being returned, you didn't think you could cope with it. Because nothing could come of this. _Nothing_. You'd convinced yourself of that months ago, because it was safer than the alternative.

You'd buried your face into the cool pillows, fighting back foolish tears and trying to count your breaths, to will yourself to sleep. And you did that for what felt like hours, tossing and turning in your borrowed bed with a mind full of circular thoughts, until the click of the hotel door opening and closing finally forced you to still. You listened carefully as Snape moved about, and you realized from the muffled sound of his footsteps that he had _removed his shoes before he'd even entered the room_. He didn't want to wake you. And you wanted to cry again. He never made _anything_ easy for you.

Swallowing your emotions, you'd pretended to sleep, and you must have done a rather decent job of it because he didn't try to call you out. There were a few muttered spells, the crackle of the fire refreshing itself, the open and close of the bathroom door, before he finally settled into his own bed, and the room was enrobed in a comfortable stillness. Having him here… having him _close_… It eased your mind. It _always_ did. And you finally felt like you had permission to stop resisting. You were lulled to sleep by the distant sound of pages turning…

You felt like you had only just closed your eyes when you found yourself opening them again. After being viciously assaulted by the light and sound of curtains being thrown open, Snape (_already in full robes_) informed you that it was 7:30 in the morning and you were expected to be downstairs in half an hour for breakfast and opening ceremonies. You'd assented blearily, and he told you he would meet you in the lobby, before exiting the room and leaving you to your own devices. And only when you were in the bathroom brushing your teeth a few minutes later did you realize that that had been his way of giving you privacy.

And you just… How. _How_? How was that man so damn _considerate_? Every time he did something like that (_he gave you tea, he let you sleep, he wrapped you up in his own bloody _cloak), it made you want to burst into tears. He was downright chivalrous. And though he would certainly deny it until the day he died, he was also unbelievably _sweet_. How were you just supposed to ignore all of this? Everything he did made you fall a little further, and it made reminding yourself that you only had three months left with him cut even deeper.

So, stacking emotional turmoil on top of your sleep deprivation made the morning of meetings particularly agonizing. You'd been sluggish to exit the hotel room but you finally made your way down to the lobby, where Snape had been waiting near the elevators, just as he'd promised. After giving you your access badge, which you pinned to the front of your jumper, you followed him to the assembly room. It was much larger than you had anticipated, and you'd been a little stunned by the grandeur of it. The main ballroom of The Atticus was immaculate; about half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, it was all marble floors and towering columns, walls draped with intricate tapestries, and a ceiling made entirely of glass, which allowed grey snowy sunlight to filter in to the massive space. At one end of the hall was a crimson curtained stage, and set up before it were rows of velvet lined chairs. It was just as lush and sumptuous as the rest of the hotel, and it was also full of _people_.

The Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers was much larger than you had originally been lead to believe. You'd thought that perhaps it was strictly a British thing, but the diverse array of robe styles, skin tones and languages was indicative of an international organization, as was the sheer amount of people in attendance. Your best approximation was that there were at least two Hogwarts Houses worth of people here, so… about a hundred and thirty people? Holy shit you weren't ready for this. You had stuck close to Snape, following him like a duckling and allowing him to take the lead entirely.

Which he did not tolerate for long. _He_ certainly wasn't here to meet people. That was _your_ job. And while Snape seemed to know a great many people there (_or rather, a great many people seemed to know _Snape), he did very little talking with any of them when they approached. He would occasionally pipe in to laude your talents when the conversation dictated, but _you_ were expected to steer the discussions yourself. And bit by bit, your anxiety was finally replaced by your natural confidence. It wasn't so bad, really; most people seemed easily impressed by the fact that you were Snape's apprentice. By the time you'd made it to the breakfast buffet and procured a cup of coffee and a croissant, you'd met five new people, and given out two of your résumés.

Despite the number of attendees that fancied themselves to be Snape's acquaintances, the only people to whom he showed any familiarity were the Malfoy's. Which was regrettable because you felt poor and flustered just _looking_ at them. If you hadn't already known they were married, you might have had the same reaction you'd had to Lockhart the night before. _Both_ of them were really ridiculously good-looking; Mister Malfoy was chiseled alabaster while Missus Malfoy was burnished silk, and together with their platinum tresses and exquisite wardrobe, they looked like the power couple of the century.

_You_ meanwhile, felt like a pile of wet straw in comparison. Why did Snape have to have such attractive friends? Knowing they were purebloods, you had expected them to be haughty and snobbish, but instead they'd been exceedingly polite; they had saved two seats next to them for you and Snape, right up close to the stage, and had greeted you warmly when you were introduced, insisting on your use of their first names, which for once you obliged, because Snape used them too. Apparently they had heard _so much about you _last night, and you gave Snape a sidelong glance as you'd taken your seat between him and Narcissa. Snape studiously ignored you.

Opening ceremonies were abysmally boring; all warm welcome's and thank you's and announcements of lecturers. It was only made bearable by the mug of coffee warming your fingers, and the catty comments being whispered between the three Slytherin's that surrounded you, critiquing everything from the presenter's wardrobes to their past social faux pas. Lucius was particularly savage, and you could tell why he and Snape got along so well. Though you were left to ponder the origin of their lasting friendship; there seemed to be a considerable age gap (_like you were one to talk_).

After the opening formalities came the lectures, and you were rather disappointed to find those _just_ as dreadfully dull. You'd rather been hoping to learn something _new_, and were astonished to find nearly everyone sitting around you listening with rapt attention, instead of experiencing mind-numbing boredom like you were. And indeed, the only one who was looking just as jaded as you were, was Snape. His arched brow when he caught your eye suggested that yes, he already knew all of this, and yes, he'd already taught it all to you as well. You wondered why _he_ wasn't on that stage, why _he_ wasn't more forthright with his own goddamn brilliance. Other people _had_ to know, right? You couldn't be the only one privy to it. But indeed, even the Malfoy's were marginally interested in the proceedings, so it seemed that Snape kept his own talent close to the chest, even among friends. So where did that place _you_ in his circle of trust? Oh, you couldn't afford to ponder this in the middle of a hall full of people…

The only lecture you'd been even remotely interested in had been delivered by Damocles Belby, who had been remarkably charismatic, in comparison to everyone else who had spoken so far. Not to mention… Well, you weren't sure what you'd been expecting, but this grey bearded silverfox had _not_ been it. Even if he hadn't been speaking about the most interesting thing you'd heard all day, you… probably would have perked up just to _watch_ his address anyway.

While other presentations had been about improved techniques and advances in production, Belby was the only one who had been working on something entirely new: a cure for Lycanthropy. His promising research from two years ago had developed by leaps and bounds, to the point where he was ready to begin testing on actual werewolves. He was certain that even if the potion did not completely cure one of the affliction, it would at least make the subject in question less dangerous during the full moon. He was getting ready to begin trials in Albania in the fall, a country with one of the highest werewolf populations in Europe, and would deeply appreciate any charitable donations in order to continue funding his research.

You hadn't gotten to meet Belby, as desperately as you had wanted to. Apparently he'd only agreed to attend for the length of his lecture, and had left before you managed to find Slughorn at the end of the day in order to ask him about it. Slughorn seemed to pick up on your bitter disappointment, and offered to pass along your résumé to Belby, which… rather shocked you. Your desire to meet Belby mostly hinged on your admiration for his work, as well as the influence his first article had on your decision to pursue potions and research as a career path. You'd never even _intended_ to give him your credentials… But now that Slughorn had mentioned it… You took the old Hogwarts professor up on his offer, and penned a quick letter to add to the résumé, expressing your aforementioned esteem and regard.

And that had been that. At the end of your first day you were an exhausted, starving, emotional wreck, and all you wanted to do was order room service and pass the hell out. But here you were, smudging brown kohl around your eyes and trying to remember how to use an eyelash curler, because _now_ you had a party to go to! Radical! If you were going to do this, you were going to do it to the best of your ability. You were also going to eat your weight in canapes and nick a few glasses of champagne if you could get away with it.

A sharp rap on the bathroom door caused you to jump, your blusher compact clattering to the counter as you smeared mascara across your nose. _Oh, for fucks sake_. You glared at the door, resisting the urge to shout out a caustic _'What?'_, before taking a deep breath and sighing slowly through your nose. "Yes?" you called back as neutrally as possible, tearing off a piece of toilet paper and dabbing it against your tongue before scrubbing at the mascara mark.

"Twenty minutes," came the monotone reply, and you jumped again. _Twenty minutes_? Since _when_? You scrambled for your watch on the counter, and god damn it he was right. It was almost eight o'clock.

"I'm nearly ready!" you lied, checking your face in the actual mirror above the sink, and deciding that would have to be good enough. Your mother would call it a 'natural' look, which to be fair was all you knew how to do anyway. Just a wash of soft brown on your lids, a whisper of mascara on your lashes, and of course, the concealer to cover up those attractive dark circles. After scrubbing some blusher onto your cheeks with your fingers and putting everything back into your stained makeup bag, you slipped off the hotel robe you'd been wearing and contemplated the dress hanging on the back of the door. After a little deliberation, you unhooked your bra as well, stuffing it into your messenger bag on the counter.

The dress was… dated. A floor length evening gown of layered mint-colored chiffon, with long, sheer balloon sleeves, a belted sash waist, and a modest v-neck. It _might_ have been revealing, if you'd had any cleavage to reveal, which admittedly, you did not. Your mother had worn it when she was 17, and that easily made it a 25 year old dress. It held up well, of course; it was an expensive garment, probably purchased for your mother by your grandparents (_who had reportedly been loaded, not that you had ever known them_). But your mother always took good care of her things from her 'past life' as she liked to call it. You hoped that the late fashion choice would fit in well among wizards; they always seemed about 20 years behind in the times anyway.

After stepping into a pair of pink ballet flats, you shimmied yourself into the dress, pulling it up the length of your legs, before slipping your arms into the sleeves and sliding them up over your shoulders. Tying the sash around your middle, the flowy skirt and cinched waistline gave you the illusion of an hourglass figure, but really, the neckline exposed nothing more than the light smattering of freckles across your collarbone. The only caveat with this dress were the buttons. Annoying, satiny little buttons up the back that just absolutely did not want to slip into the tight fabric loops, especially since you couldn't even _see_ the damn things. When you'd tried on the dress a few weeks ago in your dorm room, one of your girlfriends had fastened the buttons for you. This… was a severe oversight. There was surely a spell for this sort of dilemma, but you sure didn't know it.

But if anyone _was_ going to know a spell for such a thing…

You jabbed a pair of pearl studded earrings into your lobes, swiped a dollop of clear gloss onto your lips, and checked your watch one last time, which was kind enough to inform you that you didn't have _time_ to be thinking too hard about this. Face burning, you sighed and bit the bullet, hiking the neckline of your dress a little higher up your chest as you cracked open the bathroom door. Snape was not in your line of sight as you peered through the opening, which was sort of relieving.

"Professor?" you called tentatively, wincing at the slight pitch your voice had taken on. You heard the scrape of the writing desk chair against the carpeted floor, and you could feel the throb of your pulse in your throat. "I… uh… require some assistance," you finished lamely, quickly turning around and pulling your cascade of hair over your shoulder, so that your back was facing the door before he even arrived.

"You require assistance with _wha_\- oh." His footfalls came to a sudden halt behind you, and you hoped the ripple of gooseflesh caused by his proximity wasn't too obvious on your exposed back. Your hands twisted in your hair and your bodice through a beat of tense silence.

"I um. I thought you might be an authority on vast quantities of finicky little buttons," you teased, hoping to lighten the atmosphere with a really terrible joke. And it might have worked, as you received an amused snort in reply, but that had caused a puff of warm breath to skitter across your shoulder, and you suppressed a full on shudder. You felt him move closer, and you awaited the tingle of magic to fasten up your dress. So when you felt the brush of warm fingers against the skin of your lower back instead, you nearly screamed. You did _not_ scream, but you _did_ jump, body twitching forward, and you heard an exasperated sigh behind you. "S-Sorry! Just… ticklish," you mumbled, and you could practically hear his eyes rolling.

"Hold still," Snape insisted, and you did your best to abide, squeezing your eyes shut and probably ruining your mascara but who _cared_. You were just trying not to luridly sigh as the tips of his fingers skimmed their way up your spine with each tedious little button. He had to know a spell. He _had_ to. The man didn't button himself up like a Gringotts vault on the daily without knowing a more convenient method, right?

Okay. You realized you were blowing this out of proportion, and needed to get a grip on yourself. He was just doing your buttons for god's sake. He was barely even touching you, certainly no more than he had to, and there was nothing intimate about it at all. He was being as polite and reserved as you'd ever known him to be. But even with a head full of logic, your _body_ was still rather interested in each accidental little touch, the sensation lighting your nerves on fire.

When he fastened the final button under the nape of your neck, you sighed a relieved "thank you" before releasing your hair and straightening out the gown. Glancing at yourself in the mirror, you caught sight of him over your shoulder, and your breath hitched as your cheeks blossomed with fresh heat. It was the first time you'd gotten a look at his party attire. He looked about the same as he always did, but for three distinct differences; he'd lost the Dracula cape in favor of his usual well fitted frock coat and trousers, replaced his black cravat with an emerald green one, and he'd tied his hair back into a low, loose ponytail. Your first absurd thought was that he looked like a founding father of the Americas. Your _second_ absurd thought was that he looked absolutely _dashing_. With his hair swept back from his face, he looked younger, less tired. Almost… _handsome_.

You were staring.

He was staring back.

Difference being that you looked dumbstruck, while he looked amused. "Why don't you wear your hair back more often?" you blurted out dumbly, moving quickly to collect your bag and makeup from the counter. The reply was merely an arched brow reflected back to you in the mirror, before he left the doorframe to walk back into the main room. You collapsed against the counter, burying your face against your canvas bag and groaning in frustration. Stupid, _stupid_ to let him catch you staring like that! You thought you'd managed to play it cool the last few months. You thought you were able to bypass this 'doing-totally-dumb-and-embarassing-things-in-front-of-your-crush' stage of attraction. But being this close to him for this length of time was turning your brain to incoherent mush. You couldn't keep track of everything, of every nuanced little event that sent you spiraling into confusion. You gasped and jerked your face up from the bag, looking into the mirror to check that you hadn't just ruined all of the makeup you'd completely forgotten you were wearing. Sighing, you used your fingers to smear away some misplaced mascara, but otherwise, everything was fine.

Exiting the bathroom and striding across the bedroom, you tossed your bag onto your bed, smoothed out your gown and fluffed up your hair one last time before turning to face your professor, who was regarding you from his seat at the writing desk. You offered a meek smile, twining your fingers together. "I'm nervous," you admitted finally, deciding that just airing out your worries was preferable to squirming under his inscrutable stare. It wasn't far from the truth; you'd been acting like a nit since you got back to the hotel room. Blaming it on nerves was as close to the truth as you would allow yourself to get. Because you _were_ nervous. Just not about the party.

"I can see that," Snape replied coolly, and you whined petulantly in reply because _that wasn't helping_. He merely grinned, shaking his head in mock exasperation as he eased himself up from his chair. "You've got nothing to be worried about. Despite your nerves, you're actually quite a natural at this. You did well today during the meetings," he assured you, and you felt the tension tick out of you slowly, like a cooling engine. Okay… that did help, quite a bit actually. You closed your eyes and nodded, breathing deeply to try and balance yourself. His confidence in you was… soothing. Just his _voice_ was soothing at this point, and you clung to it like lifeline, though you feared it might just as well leave you to drown. When you opened your eyes and peered up again, he was standing before you, extending an elbow in an imitation of gentlemanly fashion. "Now then. Shall we?"

You stared for a moment, mouth dropping open slightly. Your mind and emotions were at war with each other, and you felt the increasingly familiar sensation of wanting to simultaneously laugh and cry. But, ultimately all you could do was laugh, just as you always did. You outright giggled at the absurdity of it all as you snaked your hand around his arm, allowing yourself to savor the warmth of him. "We shall," you confirmed with a hint of teasing in your voice, as you finally decided it was time to throw away your pretense and just… _enjoy_ this, while it lasted.


	11. Chapter 11 - Nightmare

Notes: This took entirely too long, but I hope this chapter is action packed enough to be worth it.

**!TRIGGER WARNINGS! **Please note that this chapter contains TRIGGER WARNINGS, and that the trigger warnings themselves might contain SPOILERS. If you want to see the trigger warnings, please scroll down to THE END OF THE CHAPTER in order to read them. General warnings will be up here, but trigger warnings that contain spoilers will be at the END of the chapter.

**Warnings**: General warnings for language, both suggestive and cursing, violence, blood-status discrimination, alcohol consumption. **Remember to check the END OF THE CHAPTER for trigger warnings.**

394

Horace Slughorn did not screw around when it came to parties. While you had thought the event might take place in the same ballroom as the lectures, Slughorn clearly had something more intimate in mind, and had reserved the entire bar of The Atticus for his little soirée. And apparently, he didn't just give out invitations on a whim. The entrance to the bar was cordoned off with a velvet rope, and a neatly dressed doorman stood to the side, checking tickets. Tickets that you were very glad you had given to Snape to handle, because even if you had managed _not_ to leave them behind at Hogwarts, your dress didn't have pockets. You had clung to his arm the entire walk through the lobby, and had no intention of releasing it, even after you had entered the bar, which was full of chattering people, and was nothing short of pristine.

Since you had arrived at The Atticus, you felt as though you were in a constant state of time travel, and tonight you were going to party like it was 1899. Gleaming with polished rosewood, brass accents, and burgundy velvet, the lounge was a delicate balance of old fashioned and classically luxurious. The bar itself took up one side of the room, with two velvet coated bartenders standing between the glossy counter and the back wall, which was backlit through frosted glass to show off the assortment of bottles that lined the shelves. Among the standard bottles of dark whiskeys and clear vodkas, were more ethereal looking liquors and wines that you imagined must have been magic made. Your mother would have a field day in a bar like this, and you swore to yourself you'd find a way to bring her here to experience it firsthand.

Dotted throughout the main floor were tall standing tables, each draped in wine-colored cloth and sporting ornate floral centerpieces. On the wall opposite the bar were several private booths with circular velvet benches and low rosewood tables. Each alcove was framed with long, gauzy drapes held back by brass fixtures, and one of the four booths was closed off, obscuring its occupants from view. And finally, towards the very back of the bar on a low stage, was an ivory coated jazz band. Or at least, you _thought_ it was a jazz band. You couldn't quite pinpoint any of the music being played, nor could you identify any of the instruments being used. But the atmosphere of the whole affair was one of class and sophistication, so jazz seemed like the proper assumption.

You felt wildly underdressed in a sea of jewel toned dress robes, which apparently was the current fashion trend, some glittering with precious gems, others whispering with extravagant silks. Were all witches and wizards this flashy, or was it just a _Slug Club_ thing? You and your professor were positively _drab_ in comparison, and your mortification only deepened as you noticed that Snape was leading you directly towards the Malfoy's, who were standing idly at one of the high top tables and looking like they ate peasants for breakfast. As you approached, you couldn't help but wonder how many innocent animals had died to make their ensembles. Lucius wore lavish robes of white and gold, the collar trimmed with white and black ermine fur, while Narcissa's dark, flowing robes were dripping with black, gold tipped feathers. They were among the few who hadn't adopted the vibrant trend of gaudy colors, and it made a bold statement; they looked absolutely stunning together in black and white.

Layered in pastel green with only pearl earrings in terms of jewelry, you felt decidedly out of place no matter who you were standing with, so might as well stick out from the crowd while in good company. Snape finally extricated his arm from your grip as you neared the table, and you were ready to mourn the loss of contact, but he replaced it by settling his hand on the small of your back, a position you were becoming increasingly more comfortable with.

You smiled a bit anxiously to the husband and wife at the table, and you were ready to receive arrogant looks from the pair of pureblooded aristocrats, but it was actually _Snape_ who got the exasperated once-over from Lucius.

"Severus," he drawled, attempting to sound conversational, but his face read 'disappointment' in every line. He lifted a heavy old-fashioned glass from the table, swirling the dark liquid within. "Good to see you've put in the bare minimum this evening."

You were rather taken aback by this blunt criticism of your professor's attire, but Snape didn't miss a beat as he deadpanned, "How many puppies did you have to kidnap for that outfit, Lucius?" Your eyes skittered over the white fur with black spots draped over Lucius's shoulders, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from actually laughing out loud. Snape gave your waist an indulgent squeeze before he finally released you, placing both of his hands on the table as you tried to suppress your giggles.

Lucius, however, did not seem quite so well versed in 1960's Disney animated feature films, and looked positively bewildered by Snape's comment, as well as your reaction to it. His pale skin had taken on some color, because even if he didn't get the joke, he _did_ know he was being made fun of. "Wha-? How dare you. I would never stoop so low as to wear _dog_-"

"Would you like a drink, Gwendolyn?" Narcissa interrupted, completely unfazed by her husband and your professor's squabbling. You quickly pulled your hand away from your mouth, looking sheepish as you turned toward her, but she merely smiled enticingly as she held her own glass out to you. "They have some positively divine elf made wine," she explained, the coupe glass full of fizzing lavender liquid. It smelled like elderflowers, and Narcissa smelled like Chanel No. 5 as she sidled closer to you.

You probably hadn't needed to put blusher on, now that you thought about it. You could feel your cheeks warming up all on their own now that Narcissa had made herself so close. _God_, she was beautiful, and you honestly weren't sure if you were apprehensive, or attracted. Both, probably. You fumbled the glass from her fingers, glancing over at Snape, who was watching with some interest. You'd been planning on _stealing_ some alcohol, not having it offered up to you so blatantly. "I… uhm… I mean, I didn't bring any mon-"

"Oh, please," Lucius interrupted, snapping his fingers at a nearby waiter, who was all too happy to drop everything he was doing in order to tend the Malfoy's table, the couple at the nearby buffet looking quite put out. "It's on my tab. Don't worry yourself." It was your turn to look bewildered. Was this man really offering to buy you a drink… in front of his own wife? But Narcissa didn't even bat an eye, and Lucius glossed over the proposal as if it were nothing before returning his attention back to your professor. "Severus? Ogden's Olde?"

Snape looked entirely nonplussed at the offer, as if this were a regular occurrence between the two of them. "Naturally," came his easy reply, and the waiter scribbled the order carefully. You felt Narcissa nudging the glass towards your lips playfully, and you suddenly remembered you were supposed to be doing something. Taking a sip, you winced at the smudge of lip-gloss left behind on the pristine glass, but she hadn't been wrong; it _was_ divine. Sweet and cloying, but also herbal and flowery, like nothing you'd ever tasted in your life. It was crisp and refreshing, and Lucius didn't even wait for your verbal approval, the flutter of your eyelashes reason enough to order an entire bottle. The waiter returned not long after with two firewhiskey's, two fresh coupe glasses, and a squat purple bottle that popped loudly as its the cork shot across the room, much to the waiters dismay. Soon you had a fizzling glass of your own, and it clinked delicately against Narcissa's before you took your first proper sip, the bubbles tickling your nose.

As you nursed your drink, listening halfheartedly to Lucius and Snape's continued bickering, you took an opportunity to scan the room. You recognized a few faces, including a handful of the lecturers from earlier in the day. Though you hadn't been entirely interested in the other speakers, you made a mental note to try and introduce yourself to some of them. The point of coming here was to make connections and possibly land yourself a job; the least you could do was pretend you were blown away by their presentations. Flattery was everything at an event like this (_probably_).

Slughorn wasn't hard to spot in the crowd either; flitting his way from table to table, he looked like some sort of rotund social butterfly, cocooned in an amethyst velvet smoking jacket. At least he was wearing loafers instead of slippers this time. You made another mental note to seek him out and thank him for everything once again. You ultimately wouldn't be here without him. And if he really _had_ passed your information along to Damocles Belby… you very well might owe him a great deal.

Despite the sheer number of wizards in flashy robes, there was _one_ figure conspicuously missing from this spectacle of flamboyance. You hadn't seen Lockhart at all since you'd arrived. He'd been rather adamant that he would be in attendance… Had he flaked out? Or was he a believer in being fashionably late? You didn't have your watch on you, but you suspected it was nearing _foppishly_ late at this point. Not that you were dying to see him again or anything.

"Now, Gwendolyn." You jumped slightly, returning your attention to Narcissa, who looked entirely too amused by your skittishness. She'd moved a bit closer, leaning one elbow against the table as she clicked her black lacquered nails against the stem of her glass. Though she still bore that charming smile, there was a glint in her eyes, something calculating and cold, that made you a bit nervous. And your nerves were almost immediately justified as she explained, "Severus told us last night that you're a half-blood."

There was a clatter of ice as Snape's drink thumped onto the table top, and you jumped again at the force of it, glancing towards the two men across the table. Snape appeared utterly scandalized, his heavy brows pressed together as his eyes blazed, while Lucius looked like Narcissa was trying his patience, sighing with a withering roll of his eyes. When the Malfoy's had mentioned that they'd _heard so much about you_ _last night_, you hadn't been sure exactly what that entailed. But considering the color creeping onto Snape's sallow face, he'd perhaps been a little more thorough than intended.

"Did he," you asked with forced politeness as your eyes flicked back to Narcissa, though it was clearly more of a statement. You weren't exactly upset with Snape, but you just weren't sure why he had mentioned it to them in the first place, especially considering how conversations about your parentage with Slytherin's _usually_ ended.

But Narcissa's sultry smile never wavered as she reached out a hand, caressing her fingertips down the sheer fabric of your sleeve, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Is that how you came about this charming little gown?" she asked, tilting her head coquettishly, and you shivered at the touch. Whether you were scared or horny, you couldn't actually tell. But you at least you had the presence of mind to be defensive either way. Because you knew a compliment when you heard one… and that had _not_ been a compliment.

"Yes it is," you confirmed, reaching down and pinching the seam of the skirt between your fingers, holding it out to show off the flow of the chiffon draping. It was a gorgeous dress, even if it was muggle made. You actually felt quite beautiful in it, and damn it, you weren't about to feel ashamed over that. "It was my mothers. Do you like it?" you asked, returning your gaze to Narcissa. But you quickly dropped your skirt at the look in her eyes; a sharp, wicked look, like a predator that had just ensnared its prey.

"So, she's the muggle then?" Narcissa asked without pretense, and you felt your hackles rise. You stood up quite straight then, taking on a defensive posture that put you a good three inches taller than the other woman (_and you weren't even wearing heels_). You weren't going to be intimidated by _anybody_, goddamn it. She might have a pretty face, but you were starting to get over that, now.

"That's right," you answered confidently, a warning edge to your voice as you took another sip from your glass. You were becoming rather tired of defending yourself and your mother against pure-blood elitists. DeJarnette already gave you enough trouble back at Hogwarts. You didn't want to deal with this _here_ too. Why were they even interested? They weren't petty school boys, they were grown ass adults. And they were clearly close friends with Snape. Surely they knew about _his_ blood status, right?

"And what about your father, dear?" Lucius asked suddenly, and you turned to face him now, finding a much softer look on his features. He, at least, didn't look like he wanted to eat you alive. Rather, he just seemed mildly curious, like he didn't really care _who_ your mother was. "I must say, I don't recognize the name 'Goode', and I'm quite well acquainted with most wizarding families."

You didn't doubt that. You shifted your stance, your defensiveness wilting now that you were faced with a slightly less aggressive interrogator. "Goode is my mother's surname," you explained, a little hesitantly. "My… uhm…" It was only now that you realized what he'd actually asked you. You rarely spared a thought for your biological father. It had only ever been you and your mother, and you'd been quite content with that arrangement for 18 years. "My father was never in the picture," you finally settled on, draining your glass for the distraction, because it felt odd to refer to him as… _He_. As if he were a real person out somewhere in the world. Which surely he _was_ but… thinking of your father was like thinking of a fictional character, and to endear him to yourself in any way felt impossible.

Narcissa moved to refill your glass, and you allowed her. She seemed a little put out now that her husband had taken over the cross-examination, that strange hunger draining from her demeanor. But now it was Lucius who looked entirely stricken by your revelation. "Never in the… But he would be the one responsible for your wizarding half. Surely you know who he _is_?" he asked warily, leaning in earnestly. He was seemingly very concerned with your paternity, and it baffled you.

You glanced to Snape then, who appeared increasingly uncomfortable, but apparently unable to bring himself to interrupt. Between the Mafoy's line of questioning, and your professors escalating discomfort, you got the ludicrous impression that you were 'meeting the parents'. Were you being evaluated for something? Worthy of association?

Looking back to Lucius, you simply shook your head. "Not at all. Neither does-" you caught yourself, before confessing that your mother didn't know who your father was either. You didn't need to give them another reason to think lowly of your mother. You certainly remember what _DeJarnette_ had thought of her. "I mean… I wasn't exactly planned."

Your slip didn't seem to go unnoticed, a brief flicker of distaste marring Lucius's handsome features. "I see…" he murmured absently, before shifting his gaze to Snape, his icy eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And Dumbledore never deemed fit to tell you?" His question was aimed toward you, but the scrutinizing look he was giving Snape was… _alarming_. Just what the _hell_ was he suggesting?

You set your glass down on the table, your fingers tracing over the curve of the stem, because your anxiety demanded you do something with your hands. You looked back and forth between Lucius and Snape, trying to read whatever sort of silent conversation they were having with their shared glaring. "Why would Dumbledore-"

"Hogwarts uses some very old magic to discover young witches and wizards coming of age, in order to invite them to the school," Snape cut in quickly, tearing his eyes away from Lucius to address you directly. His face was stony and unreadable, except for his usual sneer, which didn't faze you anymore. You hung on to his every word, which he delivered much like a lecture, in full teacher mode. "A relic from the age of Salazar Slytherin, this magic is also capable of distinguishing blood status. His original intention was to bar muggle-borns from the school, but now it's used to identify the exact parentage of each student, as well as determine whether or not a family will require a visit from a school representative to explain the situation."

You stared at your professor, your own brows knitting together as you took in this information. You remembered the awkward visit from Professor Quirrell back in the summer of 1983, when the shy young Muggle Studies teacher had arrived on your doorstep with a letter, and had used a magic wand to prove a point. He'd explained that you were a witch, and that you had apparently gotten it from your father's side according to their records. And you remembered that your mother had barely even questioned it. She'd always asserted that you were different, extraordinary, and from what little she remembered of her encounter with your father, there'd been something different about him, too. Something that had attracted her to him in the first place. Quirrell had mentioned that it was unusual to have to make this sort of visit to someone with a magical parent, but the Headmaster had insisted that you would require such a visit.

Dumbledore had known, all this time. _You_ could have known, all this time. And it made your stomach churn with doubt and apprehension to even think about.

You realized you'd been staring intently into your wineglass when you heard the unmistakable sound of displeased rich-person tutting. You glanced back up to see Lucius shaking his head with a positively mournful look on his face. "Seven years, and no one has thought to tell you your true heritage," he lamented. And it truly sounded like a lamentation. As if not knowing ones origin was something worthy of the deepest sorrow.

"I never thought to ask," you murmured, lifting your glass from the table and draining it. It went down easily, sweet and syrupy, and you pushed away the empty coupe with a wince, your head already swimming a little. You didn't want to think about this. Not right now. This was a thing that hadn't even _been_ a thing 15 minutes ago. You sort of wished you could go back to when it _wasn't _a thing at all.

"Well, you ought to," came Lucius's sharp retort, and your eyes snapped back up to his. He looked a little upset with you, which was… odd. All of this was odd. Why did he care so much about who your stupid dad was anyway? Why did Narcissa care if your mother was a muggle? It wasn't like you'd ever see them again after this, right? They were Snape's friends, not yours.

"Why?" you decided to ask, suddenly wishing you weren't at this table at all. Wishing you could head back up to your hotel room and bury your face in those blue pillows again. More than anything, wishing you could press yourself into Snape's side and have him tell you that you didn't have to listen to the Malfoy's any more.

"Well, it could be important, sometime down the line," Lucius explained casually, as if the reason were oh, so obvious. "Knowing what family you're a descendant of could have… all sorts of benefits." He shrugged a shoulder, glancing over to Snape again as if seeking backup, but all he got was a steely glare from your professor, and Lucius rolled his eyes in return. "I'm just _saying_. It couldn't hurt to _know…_"

You weren't privy to any conversation that came after that. You were aware that they were talking… or, well, _someone_ was talking. Everyone was talking. But it was all background noise now. You could hear blood throbbing in your ears, the sensation muffling the rest of the sound around you as you stared down at the table, at the lovely centerpiece that sparkled with magical flora. You were trying to count your breaths, to clear your mind, to push the idea of your father out of it, because you refused to have a malicious seed planted in your brain by some yuppie. At least it _felt_ malicious. What good could actually come of knowing who'd sired you? What did it matter?

You were feeling woozy. Two glasses of wine without anything to eat had probably been a mistake. Your body felt warm and heavy, but your head felt chaotic. It was time to leave this table, you decided, maybe go socialize with someone else. Literally anyone else. And you didn't care whether Snape joined you or not.

"Pardon me," you said quietly, dipping your head politely as you excused yourself from the table. You could feel eyes on your back as you made your way toward the buffet, and you had your suspicions as to who they belonged to. You were comforted that he was still watching out for you… but you were also a little miffed with _him_, too. He could have told them to mind their own business. Could have risen to your defense. Hell, he could have just _not told them_ you were a ruddy half-blood and saved everyone the trouble. But then again, there was a chance they might have questioned you on it anyway. They were certainly on a mission tonight. Ugh, _god_. Forget it. It's over with now. Time for cake.

And dang, there was a lot of cake. You were momentarily distracted from your emotional turmoil by the sight of mountains of food piled up on the large, round table punctuating the center of the bar. Like everything else, the food at this party was no joke. And you were pleased to see that no one was being shy about it either. There was nothing worse than wanting to stuff your face, but feeling socially obligated to eat with your pinky out. That didn't seem to be a problem with the present company, so you experience no shame as you loaded up your plate with every available sweet and pastry on the buffet. You were delighted to see that for every cream puff and jam tart and petit four you snatched up, a new one materialized in its place. It was like something out of Willy Wonka, and you couldn't be more thrilled.

You were contemplating which flavor of macaron you wanted to treat yourself with when Horace Slughorn appeared by your side, a cocktail glass in one hand and a broad smile on his face. He looked over your plate with playful interest before asking, "Dessert first, my dear?"

You smiled warmly as you placed a yellow macaron onto your plate. "Life is short," you explained simply, and that earned you a good natured chuckle from the older man. Slughorn was growing on you rapidly, and you found you quite enjoyed being in his company. He was a worldly man who enjoyed worldly pleasures, and that was something you could appreciate. You were pleased that he'd taken the time to come and visit you now, as he was a friendly face while you were feeling adrift.

"That's my kind of philosophy," Slughorn commented genially, before perusing the buffet himself and plucking up a chilled shrimp canape. "Though I prefer the savories myself," he explained as he took a nibble, and you couldn't help but giggle, picking up one of your jam tarts and joining him in the indulgence. "So tell me Miss Goode, how did you enjoy your first day?"

You took your time savoring your blackberry tart, because you needed the time to come up with something good. Telling him that you were entirely disenchanted by the days lectures probably would not be a good look. You dabbed your lips with a napkin, taking the chance to wipe off that damn lip-gloss. "It's been enlightening," you conceded, deciding that wasn't really a lie. You certainly _had_ been enlightened as to how far advanced your own education was under Snape, and how far behind everyone else seemed to be. You gave Slughorn a sincere smile then, reaching out and placing a hand delicately against his arm. "I can't thank you enough for… Just for everything. For inviting me. For giving me this opportunity. It means a great deal to me."

Slughorn beamed, and he patted your hand with his free one as he proclaimed, "No trouble at all, my dear. It's been a pleasure having you here." You slipped your hand away then, and he took a sip from his glass before tipping it towards you confidently. "You'll be going places, young lady. I can feel it. I'll have you know that I owled your credentials off to Mister Belby this just this evening." He nudged you with his elbow then, and gave you a sly wink as he explained, "I slipped in a little note myself. Just a personal letter of recommendation. With any luck, he'll take notice."

You felt fresh heat crawl up your neck. What exactly had his note _said_? "Oh, you didn't have to do that..." you began, but Slughorn merely shook his head warningly. He clearly would not be accepting your protest, and you slumped slightly, bowing your head in submission to his kindness. "Thank you, Horace," you said softly, and he appeared quite pleased with your use of his first name. Picking up another pastry, you looked the little lemon macaron over critically, but your sudden apprehension was not pastry based. "Is he… I mean, is Mister Belby _looking_ for an apprentice?" you asked warily. You hadn't remembered him mentioning needing people for his research. Just generous charitable donations.

"As a matter of fact, he is," Slughorn confirmed as he peered down into his glass, swirling the last few chips of ice left in the dregs of his scotch. "A few, actually, I think. He mentioned something about assembling a team to assist him with the werewolf trials in Albania. It sounds like he already has a selection of test subjects lined up, so he just needs extra hands on deck. Folks to help with data collection, potion brewing, that sort of thing."

Your heart was pounding rapidly. You could feel it throbbing in your throat as you attempted to swallow your macaron, but your mouth was suddenly very dry. You felt as though you were on the verge of something very important, and you were caught between being excited, and being frightened. "Is… Isn't that sort of dangerous?" you asked tentatively, your head bowed toward your plate but your eyes covertly watching Slughorn.

Slughorn appeared thoughtful for a moment, before taking a deep breath and puffing out his great big cheeks with a contemplative huff. "I imagine that's a risk you have to take, when working with werewolves," he explained seriously. But his brooding tone shifted as he caught your worried eye, offering a reassuring smile instead. "Don't let that discourage you, dear. If I know Damocles, he's taking every precaution to ensure the safety of all involved. Mostly to cover his own behind." Slughorn chuckled at this, and you attempted to join him, but the sound caught nervously in your throat. Slughorn drained the last of his drink before asking, "Have you ever been abroad, my dear?"

You shifted uncomfortably, fearing that your answer would be remarkably underwhelming. "I can't say that I have," you admitted, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. The truth was you'd never even been out of _London_ before you started attending Hogwarts. You'd been a homebody your entire life. Was… that about to change? Did Slughorn think you had that kind of chance? "Though I… certainly wouldn't rule it out."

Slughorn smiled broadly again, and this time he was the one patting your arm amiably. "That's the right mindset to have, my girl," he chortled. His confidence in you was strange. He barely even knew you, but he seemed so eager for you to succeed. Even if it was just so that he could say he played a part in it. "With your spunky attitude and quick wit? Well, as I said, I sincerely believe you'll be going places."

You smiled indulgently. You don't think you'd ever been described as 'spunky' before, but you'd take it. "Like Albania?" you teased, but even as you said it out loud, it made your heart flutter and your spine shiver. Could you _actually_…?

Slughorn barked out a jovial laugh at this, and he nodded, tipping his glass towards you again. "Like Albania," he concurred, and gave you another wink before peering into the aforementioned glass, finding it deplorably empty. "Well now, I think I ought to be making my way to the bar and continuing the rounds." He smiled up at you then, and reached his hand out for yours. "You keep enjoying yourself, alright?" he insisted, and you smiled affably as you took his hand, giving it a firm shake.

"I will, Horace. Thank you." Slughorn squeezed your hand, before trying to pat it awkwardly with the other one, which was still holding the glass, before he released you and tottered off toward the bar. You watched after him fondly, but your smile wobbled a bit. This party was turning out to be considerably more terrifying than you had anticipated. Between the Malfoy's giving you the third degree, and Slughorn suggesting that you actually had what it takes to work with a Potions Master like Damocles Belby, on a venture as important and possibly world changing as _curing lycanthropy_…

You closed your eyes, your plate of pastries trembling slightly in your hands as you swallowed down your nerves. You were unsure what to do, what to think, what to feel. You'd come here to do exactly this, to make connections with people, to possibly find a job, to find a future. But _Albania_… You weren't sure you could even point it out on a map. It was near Greece, right? You knew nothing about the country, and now here you were, contemplating the possibility of leaving your home for this faraway place, to work on the project of your dreams. You wanted to help people. But were you willing to leave your life behind in order to do it? You suddenly weren't very hungry any more. After setting your plate on the tray of a passing waiter, you were contemplating a trip to the ladies room for some peace and quiet when you felt an arm snake around your shoulders.

"I've been looking for you all night."

You yelped, nearly jumping out of your skin at the voice and the touch, and the owner of both quickly disengaged, holding both of his hands up in surrender. Gilderoy Lockhart appeared repentant, offering an apologetic smile that, despite its clumsiness, was absolutely gleaming. "Did I frighten you?" he asked soothingly as he reached out a placating hand. "I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to." His tone was pacifying as he gestured towards himself, placing the fingertips of one hand against the chest of his sapphire dress robes. "It's Gwyneth, right?"

You were clutching your own chest, trying to get your breathing under control. What you suspected was supposed to be an attempt at a smooth move had just left you rattled, but the absurdity of his question made you bubble with laughter. You hung your head a moment, gathering your wits up before peering back up to him with a wry smile. "Just… Just call me Gwen," you suggested, and Lockhart beamed, recovering quickly from his blunder.

"Gwen it is," he confirmed, reaching out to take one of your hands. You didn't pull away as he lifted it to his lips, and you felt that same giddy sort of flutter you'd experienced the last time he had done this. Winking one of his charming blue eyes, he moved to settle his arm around your waist this time, leaning in close so you could properly hear him. "I _have_ been looking for you all evening, you know," he repeated, mouth close to your ear, his warm breath brushing over your neck. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Your heartbeat began to pick up as you gazed about the room. _Why_ had he been looking for you, exactly? He'd said last night that he was looking forward to seeing you again, but frankly you thought he was being facetious. He was _Gilderoy Lockhart_ for god's sake. He could have any woman he wanted; they practically threw themselves at him. So why had he chosen _you_…?

Okay, wait. Pump the breaks. He was just offering to buy you a drink. That didn't have to have any other implication other than wanting to talk to you. Lucius had bought you a drink, and you were (_pretty_) sure that he hadn't been trying to come on to you. You didn't see the Malfoy's, or Snape for that matter, as you peered around the bar, and it didn't take you long to come to a conclusion. Fuck it. You were entirely overwhelmed with everything that had happened, and you were ready to disengage. You would gladly listen to Gilderoy Lockhart talk about himself for hours if it meant you didn't have to think about anything for a while. It might even be nice to talk with someone a little closer to your own age. Turning your face up to his, you offered a tired little smile. "That sounds lovely," you accepted, and a look of triumph flickered over Lockhart's face.

"Splendid!" he grinned, practically radiating with excitement as he slipped his arm away from your waist, taking up one of your hands instead as he guided you across the room. "I've commandeered one of these charming little booths," he explained, gesturing into one of the circular enclaves, his deep blue cloak draped across the bench. "Have a seat, and I'll nip off to the bar, shall I?" he suggested, though it clearly was not up for debate. You'd barely turned to answer him when he was already taking off across the room. You smiled warily again as you took a seat in the booth, his energy levels already wearing you out.

While Lockhart was at the bar, you took a moment to scan the room again. You really couldn't see Snape or the Malfoy's anywhere, and that made you a little anxious. Where could they have possibly gotten off to? Wasn't Snape supposed to be watching you? You did let out a little sigh of relief as you caught Slughorn's eye from across the room. He raised a hand to you in a polite little wave, and you returned it before you settled back into the squishy velvet bench. At least _someone_ knew where you were. Not that you were worried. You were just looking forward to free drinks (_oh please, let him be getting champagne_) and zoning out for a bit while Lockhart regaled stories of his achievements.

And you did perk up a little when you saw that Lockhart did indeed have two flutes of pink champagne in his hands. You were a sucker for the bubbly, and you were excited to finally get what you'd been craving. Lockhart pulled the dark, flowing curtains closed behind him as he entered the booth, and much like the phone boxes out in the lobby, the alcove was suddenly draped in pleasant quiet. It didn't block all the sound; you could still hear the band and the soft chatter of guests, but it wasn't nearly as loud any more. "Cheers, darling," Lockhart gushed, handing you your glass before clinking the flutes together and settling down beside you. He threw his arm over the back of the bench behind your shoulders, but this time he refrained from touching you.

"Cheers," you answered, lifting your glass to your face and sniffing it first. It smelled _heavenly_, but also a bit strange, like no champagne you'd ever had before. It was like almonds and chocolate at first, but on another whiff it became spicy and herbal. And that just made you giddy, because you were having quite a good time exploring magical alcohol this evening. You were already feeling the weight lifting off of you.

"So, how were the lectures today?" Lockhart asked, a hint of teasing in his voice as he crossed one knee over the other, looking quite luxurious as he lounged beside you. "Were they dreadful, or just boring?"

You lowered your glass, your mouth falling open slightly at his candor. He'd sounded oh so regretful yesterday when he'd told Slughorn he'd be missing out on the lectures. But now you had the impression that he was just as jaded as you were. "Dreadfully boring, actually," you conceded, and Lockhart grinned as he took a sip from his own glass, as if he were in on some sort of inside joke.

"As I suspected," he mused, swirling his glass as he leaned in towards you surreptitiously. "I know I said they'd misplaced my reservation, but to be frank, I wasn't too beat up about it. Potions aren't exactly my specialty, but I couldn't deny Old Sluggy when he invited me to become a member." He shrugged a shoulder with a longsuffering sigh, as if it was such a chore to attend these sorts of things, to do such trivial favors for people like Slughorn. Peering back down at you, he gestured toward your glass with his own. "Drink up, darling. You don't want that getting warm."

You rolled your eyes at his confession about not being too bent out of shape over missing the lectures, but having attended them yourself, you could sort of see where he was coming from. Lifting the glass to your lips, you took your first sip of the fizzling champagne, and you were overwhelmed with a variety of sensations. So many different flavors swirled around your mouth in that moment that you couldn't possibly pin point each one, but somehow they all tasted incredible. Lockhart was watching you closely as you drank, amusement etching his delicate features, and you got the impression that he knew you'd never had anything like this before.

"Between you and me," Lockhart continued, still staying conspiratorially close as he spoke, glancing through the small partition in the curtains as if to make sure you weren't being overheard. "I much preferred Slughorn to Snape. Even when we attended school together, Snape was always just so…" he waved the hand that was hovering over your shoulder vaguely, trying to come up with the correct descriptor, but the repulsed look on his face said it well enough. "Well. I'm sure _you_ know. Do you really apprentice for him?" he asked incredulously, and at your nod of confirmation, he shook his head in disbelief. "How on earth have you survived this long?"

You laughed a little at that, shrugging your shoulder as you took another sip. "He's… He's not _so_ bad," you yielded, feeling like you ought to be offended by his implications towards your professor, but finding yourself entirely disinclined to do so. It was easier to just sort of agree with Lockhart. "We work quite well together, actually," you managed to defend, and you found yourself peering out towards the bar as well. There was still no sign of Snape or the Malfoy's. You found that you didn't particularly care anymore.

"That's surprising," Lockhart admitted, his nose still scrunched up in distaste. "Not that I ever had classes with him, but I was under the impression that he was incapable of working with _anyone_." He looked for pensive a moment, before peering into his own glass and taking another sip. "I mean, besides Evans."

You bristled slightly, arching an eyebrow as you peered over your shoulder at Lockhart. "Who?" you asked, and Lockhart looked abashed.

"Ah. _Lily_ Evans," he explained, and at your bemused expression, continued on. "Old flame of his back in school, I think. Or well," he scoffed with a snort of laughter. _"That_ might be stretching it. If there were any flames between them, it was more like him carrying a torch for her." Lockhart drained his glass before sitting up straight, pulling out his wand from the breast pocket of his robes. "It was painfully obvious that she wasn't interested. As if anyone would blame her." He tapped his glass, and it refilled instantly with more of the pale pink champagne. Stuffing his wand back into his robe, he threw his arm across the back of the bench once more, but this time he allowed it to settle around your shoulders, shifting a little closer to you. "Now he's just a bitter old bastard, isn't he?"

Your head felt like it was full of cotton and bees, a soft thrum buzzing through your veins as you settled comfortably against Gilderoy's side. You were much more lightheaded than you'd been before too; perhaps the champagne was a higher proof than the elf wine. Gilderoy must have had a high tolerance if he was already on his second glass. You were barely halfway through your own. The name Lily Evans felt familiar to you, but no bells were ringing as you sighed. "Yeah… he kind of is," you agreed, your brows pressed together now as you thought about it. That… wasn't right. He was kind to _you_ but… he was sort of prick sometimes too.

Gilderoy leaned in close, and you could feel him nuzzle the side of your head, heard him breathe in the scent of your hair as he cooed into your ear. "Life is much too short to spend it pining, don't you think?" He tapped the bottom of your champagne flute with his fingers, and you lifted it obediently to your lips, taking another long swallow of the inexplicably flavored spirit. "I'm much more inclined to simply seize what I want, when I want it. It saves _me_ an awful lot of trouble." You shuddered slightly as he pulled away to place his glass onto the table, and used his now free hand to brush away a lock of your hair. Dragging a knuckle over your cheek, he placed his fingertips under your chin and tilted your head, your hazel eyes locking with his glittering blue ones. "What about you, darling? What are the things _you_ want?"

You had to think hard, because your brain felt like it was floating on another planet somewhere. What did you want? You wanted to crawl into this man's strong embrace and live there forever, but you couldn't tell him _that_, could you? "I honestly don't know anymore," you murmured, trying to remember the other things that you wanted… You had a reason for being here, right…? It was still a pretty good reason too, so you grabbed onto it through the haze. "I guess… all I really want to do is help people."

Gilderoy chuckled, his breath warm and honeyed against your cheek. "You sweet thing," he murmured, and took to stroking the line of your jaw, like one might pet a particularly compliant kitten. "I know what you mean. That's what I try to do, with my books. First I help those remote little villages with their zombies or their trolls or whatever. And then I help all of those poor, lonely women who read my books by adding a little fantasy to their lives. It's a _very_ rewarding occupation." You were hardly paying attention to his words, but your eyes were quite focused on his lips as he spoke. When they finally shut up, they curved into that charming smile that was melting your insides. "How's the champagne?" he asked, and you huffed out a little laugh of your own, straightening up a little as you peered into your glass. It was nearly empty now.

"Weird, actually," you admitted, swirling it around and inhaling its aroma once more. Now it smelled like all-sorts, your favorite candy from when you were a child. "I can't figure out what it's supposed to taste like," you admitted, lifting your face dreamily. "It's _fantastic_."

Gilderoy's smile was handsome and warm, and you found yourself snuggling closer against him. "That's typical for first time drinkers," he explained, placing his hand over yours, holding the glass along with you. "It's charmed, you see. Supposed to take on the flavors of your favorite things." He lifted the glass towards your lips, watching you with a hot intensity that made your pulse flutter in your neck, and… elsewhere. "Take another sip. Really concentrate, now. And tell me, what does it taste like, for you?"

Your eyes never left his as you drained the glass into your mouth, and you swirled it around your tongue before swallowing it down. "Licorice," you murmured, taking a deep breath to try and recapture the taste. "Coconut. And something else… spicy… cloves?" You wanted more, but Gilderoy was plucking the empty glass from your fingers, placing it on the table before returning his hand to your face, tracing your bottom lip with the soft pad of his thumb.

"What an interesting palate you've got," he teased, and he leaned in very close then, making that warm thrum pounding through your veins turn fiery hot and loud. "Would you mind if I had a taste?"

His lips were outrageously soft as they pressed against yours, and you sighed contentedly as you slid your hands against his chest. He tasted like champagne, the tart kind you were used to, as you relented to the prodding of his tongue. His dress robes were satin, and you could feel the rise and fall of his chest through the smooth fabric. The sound of his quiet moaning filled your ears and dropped straight down to settle between your legs. You always liked the sounds that boys made…

You were panting softly when he finally pulled away, and he dragged his fingers through your thick hair as he allowed you to catch your breath. "You're _very_ beautiful, you know," he murmured against the corner of your mouth. "When I met you yesterday, I just _knew_… Shame about the company you've been forced to keep, but I'd be happy to provide you an escape from that." That made something stutter in your brain, and you blinked with confusion as you stared down at his cravat. The company you're forced to keep…? Did he mean…? "And as I said, I prefer to seize the things I want when I want them."

His mouth was on yours again and he kissed… wetly. And you knew that you didn't _like_ it when guys kissed too wet, when they used too much tongue, when they tried to eat your mouth. This wasn't what you _liked_. But you were powerless against it. Your brain was trying to convince yourself that this… that Gilderoy… was _exactly_ what you liked. And your mind smoothed over with that soft, fuzzy buzzing again. This was what you _wanted_. "Gilderoy…" you gasped as you felt a hand slide down your waist, gripping your hip firmly as he hoisted you into his lap.

"Mmm… My name tastes _awfully_ good on your lips," he teased, nipping at your bottom lip with his teeth. You sighed softly as the sensation sent another shockwave through your body, and you leaned in for more…

The sound of the curtains being throw open startled you both apart, and as you peered over your shoulder to confront the intrusion, your insides went cold with dread. Snape was beyond livid. He looked downright _lethal_ as he stood in the entrance to the booth, his dark eyes flickering from you, to Gilderoy, and then to the glasses on the table. Gilderoy was the first to recover from his shock, and he sat up straight, shifting you back onto the bench seat, an arm still firmly around your waist. He looked nearly as angry as Snape did, but there was also a flicker of fear behind his blazing blue eyes.

"What the hell, man?!" Gilderoy demanded, but any further protest died is his throat as Snape bent over to pick up your empty champagne flute, holding it to his nose and inhaling deeply. You glanced wildly between Gilderoy and your professor as Gilderoy started to disentangle himself from you, reaching for his wand in his robes, while Snape glared murderously over the rim of the glass.

"Now, see here, Snape-" but Gilderoy was cut off by the deafening pop of shattering glass as Snape hurled the flute onto the table, glittering shards spraying over the rosewood surface and onto the floor. You screamed then, pulling your legs up onto the bench as Snape shoved past you. Gilderoy was brandishing his wand, looking panic stricken as he cried "Oblivi-!" But Snape was nearly as quick with his fists as you were. You shrieked again at the meaty thwack of Snape's knuckles colliding with Gilderoy's cheek, and the blonde man fell back onto the bench again, his eyes wide with fright.

But Snape didn't advance further on the other man. Instead, he rounded on you, grabbing your arm so fiercely that you feared your sleeve would tear. He hauled you to your feet before growling, "We're leaving. Now," and shoving you through the curtains. You were momentarily stunned, your cotton filled head throbbing, before you finally found the sense to be outraged.

"Hey!" you cried, whipping around to face your professor. But any glare you could produce wasn't even on the same level as the once marring his own features, and you wilted slightly as he took your arm again, attempting to get you moving as he pulled you across the floor. "Hey, let go of me! Gilder-" you tried to twist yourself out of Snape's grip, turning to look back into the booth, but you found it startlingly empty. Gilderoy was gone, Disapparated, the only evidence that he'd even been there being his glass of champagne, which had spilled out onto the table.

You were tempted to make a scene as you were bodily dragged through the room, but no one was really paying much attention to either of you. Apparently, enough of the commotion had taken place behind the silence charmed curtains that no one had even noticed something violent had happened. The only worried look you received was from Horace Slughorn, who was hovering anxiously at the end of the bar as he watched Snape pull you through the doors.

Snape only relented his grip when he practically threw you into the elevator, following in behind you and slamming the button to close the doors and start the ascent to the fourth floor. You were panting, your entire existence seething with outrage, and you finally exploded with indignation.

"What the _hell_ is your problem?" you cried, your hands tightening into fists as you glared at your professor. But he entirely disregarded you, leaning against the corner of the elevator as he stared intently at the floor indicator. You were _not_ going to be _ignored_. "Hey! I'm talking to you! What is your _damage_?" You reached out and shoved his shoulder roughly, but he remained steadfast, your push barely even jostling him. Fine. If he wouldn't respond to _physical_ jabs…

"You're jealous, aren't you?" you ridiculed, feeling angry tears stinging your eyes as you inserted yourself between Snape and the door, forcing him to look at you by proximity alone. He returned your glare, but you saw the irritated twitch of a muscle in his cheek. "You have been since yesterday. Gilderoy showed you up and you've been moping like some sullen schoolboy ever since. Then you barge in and ruin the only good time I've managed to have this whole bloody weekend? You're _pathetic_." The rage that coursed through you seemed very, very real. But there was a queasiness forming in the pit of your stomach, and a throb of pain in your temple as you spoke. You winced, reaching your hand up into your hair to clutch at your scalp, but keeping your glare as resolute as possible.

Snape watched your every move carefully, and you wanted to smack him for daring to look so concerned. You'd been doing _just fine_ before he showed up! "And why, exactly, would I be jealous of Gilderoy Lockhart?" he hissed, his composure faltering just long enough for you to see your opening, to strike at the soft underbelly that his glowering armor didn't reach.

"Oh, I don't know," you rolled your eyes flippantly, crossing your arms over your chest as you counted off the ways. "He's young, handsome, rich." You sneered up at him, lowering your voice dangerously as you went in for the kill. "Just what have _you_ got going for you?"

The elevator came to a stop, and you once again found your arm pinched in a vicelike grip as Snape dragged you down the hall. You protested, trying to pry his hand off of you, but before you could manage, you were being shoved into your shared hotel room and practically tossed onto his bed. You made to stand right back up, but you were pushed down by a heavy hand on your shoulder.

"Sit down," Snape commanded, and you crossed your arms defiantly as you grudgingly did as you were told. Poised on the corner of his bed, you glared at his back as he dug through his weekender bag. That seething hatred you felt was starting to dissipate, but left in its wake was a sick kind of worry. What was going to happen to you? What had happened to Gilderoy? He'd just left you! What if he came back and you weren't there? Why had he left you in the first place?

Snape spun around, and you jumped as he held out a thin glass vial, the dark amber apothecary glass masking whatever was inside. You eyed it suspiciously as Snape demanded, "Drink this."

You looked from the vial to your professor, before laughing incredulously. "Why should I?" you questioned, and though your tone was petulant, your curiosity was sincere. What kind of game was he trying to play here?

Snape gritted his teeth, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Because I _told_ you to," he insisted, as if that was ever going to be a good enough reason.

You stood up then, your eyes wide with vitriol as you tried to make yourself imposing. "Why should I do anything you say?" you cried, nearing a shout as you took a step forward. You were satisfied when Snape took a step back, but you realized all he was doing was blocking your exit. "You _hit_ Gilderoy and then dragged me all the way up here!" You tried to shove past him, but he reached out to grab your arm again, and you recoiled away from him vehemently. "I want to go back right now!"

Snape leveled you with a harsh glower, but he kept his voice even as he spoke. "Drink this, and you can go," he promised, holding the vial out once again. You were a little pissed off that he was trying to take the high road, acting all calm and collected like he hadn't just been shoving you around for the past ten minutes.

Frowning down at the vial, you considered this ultimatum. At this point, you were willing to do almost anything to escape this horrible man, and get back to Gilderoy while you still had the chance. "What is it?" you asked tentatively, your voice still harsh as you scowled back up at him. There was another throb in the side of your head, and you winced once more.

Snape's ire reduced even further, that worried pang flickering over his face once again like it had in the elevator. "Sobering Solution," he explained blandly, holding the bottle out this time, waiting for you to take it. "You're drunk, and I don't want you leaving this bloody room until you drink this. Do you understand me?"

You glanced from Snape to the vial a few times. He wasn't wrong. You did feel drunk, or high, or something. Your brain still felt like it was full of fluff, and the throbbing in your temple and the churning of your guts only made things feel worse. You were able to recall just enough to know that Sobering Solution was typically stored in dark glass, as opposed to clear… And deep in the back of your swimming head, you remembered that Snape had never given you a reason not to trust him.

Snatching the vial from his hand, you pulled the cork out with your teeth, spitting it out onto his bed. Tipping your head back and drinking the whole thing, the bitter taste coated your tongue as it made its way down your throat. And you were immediately aware of three things; this was _not_ a Sobering Solution, it was a Purging Potion, and Snape had _lied_ to you.

You swooned, dropping the glass to the carpeted floor as you stumbled back onto his bed. The room seemed to spin, that aching pain in your head became a stabbing one, and the roiling in your guts became more pronounced. "Oh…" you moaned, holding your hand over your mouth as you looked up franticly, delirious with panic as your mouth flooded with saliva.

Snape was already standing at the door to the bathroom as he flipped the light on. "I'm sorry, Miss Goode," he apologized, all of his previous irritation having completely drained away as he cleared a path for you. "I'm afraid this isn't going to be pretty."

You felt another surge of agony wrack your stomach and your brain, and you stumbled over your dress as you dashed past him into the bathroom. You skidded to your knees before the toilet, just in time for the violent upheaval of your insides to make its way out. And with each retch of your body, with each splash of pink foam into the bowl, you felt your mind become your own again. And you started to sob violently.

Your turmoil worsened as you felt long fingers brush against your cheeks, gathering your hair back and away from your face to be held loosely at the nape of your neck. Then came the comforting sensation of a cool washcloth held against your forehead. A lean body was pressed against your back, and calming words were being whispered into your ear. "Shh… Get it out," Snape murmured soothingly, even as your sobs grew harder and your retching began to taper off into dry heaves. "You're okay."

But you weren't okay. You were so far from okay, you weren't sure you'd ever be okay again. Though the pain in your stomach had finally subsided, the torment in your brain persisted, and your anguished tears weren't helping. You felt a shift behind you, Snape releasing your hair so that he could reach over and flush the purge away, and you twisted yourself around at that moment, shoving your face into his chest as you clutched desperately at his waist.

"I didn't mean it!" you sobbed, feeling absolutely wretched as your tears soaked into the fabric of his frock coat. He'd gone very still under your hands, and for a moment you were horrified that he might be disgusted with you. "Oh, my g-god," you whimpered, lifting your tear streaked face to meet his. He looked worried, his lips parted, perhaps on the verge of saying something, but you needed him to _understand_. "I didn't m-mean it! Y-You know that, r-right?" You raised your hands further, fingers gripping at his shoulders as you pulled yourself up to kneel before him. "Please, look inside," you begged, forcing yourself to look into his eyes, wanting to feel the skittery scrape of beetle legs against your skull. You knew the risk, knew that this could ruin everything, but you had to let him know. You _had_ to. "_Please_."

He sighed heavily, looking away from you as he sat back onto the tile floor, bringing you along with him. His long legs were sprawled on either side of you as you sat back on your knees between them. As he wiped at your cheeks with the wet cloth, you glanced down to see the rag smeared with black mascara. Tossing it aside, he reached out to push your hair back out of your face, cradling your skull in his hands as he stared intently into your eyes… where you felt nothing. No beetles. No invasion. No pain. You felt _nothing_ as he gazed down at you with so much concern in his coal black eyes. "I don't need to look," he whispered, his voice thick and unsure. "I know…"

You were trembling as your sobs started anew, and you didn't even care at this point. You buried your face into his chest again, and this time you felt his arms wrap tightly around you as you howled your grief against his heart. You didn't know how long it lasted, the emotional purge that you suffered after the physical one. But Snape made no move to end the embrace until you were ready. And that almost made you feel _worse_. After all he'd done for you, all that he continued to do… and you'd… you said such _awful_…

Your sobs had dwindled off to quiet sniffs and hiccups when he finally broke the silence. "Think you can get up?" he asked quietly, and your entire body quivered at the thought of having to move. You were exhausted, emotionally and physically drained, but you knew you couldn't sit on this bathroom floor forever. Sitting back on your knees, you gazed down at the wet patch you'd left on his coat. But before you could start up a fresh wave of tears, he'd slipped his wand from his sleeve, casting a spell to banish all of the excess tears and mucus from your skull. You were so startled by the sudden ability to see and breathe again, that you didn't even bat an eye when he cast a second spell to _Accio_ your bag into the bathroom, and a third to swiftly undo all of the buttons down the back of your dress. You shivered at the sudden exposure, but you didn't feel uncomfortable in the least.

"I'll give you some time to change," he muttered quietly, pushing himself up from the floor, and reaching his hands out for yours. You took them gratefully, and he hauled you to your feet, before setting down the toilet lid and letting you sit back on it. "I'll be right in the other room," he promised, picking up your bag and setting it into your lap. "Take your time. Come out whenever you're ready to discuss what happened."

"What happened…?" you croaked, staring down at your bag clutched in your lap. Snape sighed softly, placing both of his hands on your shoulders and squeezing comfortingly before turning away and exiting the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind him. You thought you were going to cry by yourself now, but your head hurt too much, and more than anything, you did not want to be alone for longer than you had to be. You made quick work of getting out of your dress, pulling on your stupid bumble bee pajamas instead. You quickly brushed your teeth, desperately needing to banish the taste of sick from your mouth, and you splashed some water onto your face as well, scrubbing away the last of your makeup. Your face looked swollen from crying, and you winced as you spotted a few burst blood vessels under your eyes, surely from the force of your purge. With a sigh, you threw everything back into your bag, and shuffled out into the hotel room.

Snape was at the writing desk, wearing only his trousers and shirtsleeves now as he sorted out his bag, which he'd apparently ransacked in search of his potions kit. Glancing up upon your arrival, he stood, taking your bag from you and setting it at the end of your bed. When he returned, he held out three more small glass vials.

"Calming Draught, Stomach Soother, and a Dreamless Sleep," he explained, before adding, "If you think you need them." You smiled weakly, but gratefully accepted the Calming Draught and the Stomach Soother, swallowing them dutifully, knowing that they were exactly what he said they were this time. Especially because you were pretty sure you had brewed them yourself. You handed the empty bottles back to him, before placing the Dreamless Sleep on the table between the beds, and pausing as you stared down at it. You didn't want to take it just yet. After a moment's deliberation, you crawled on top of his bed, laying on your side and curling yourself around one of the decorative pillows as you settled in to let the potions work their magic. Snape looked wary, but ultimately joined you on the bed, sitting a respectful distance away with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, his hands folded in his lap as he leaned back against the multitude of pillows.

There was a beat of silence as you felt the relaxing effects of the Calming Draught on your muscles, as well as your mind. You didn't feel so inclined to burst into tears this time when you quietly asked, "What happened?" You had a feeling you already knew… but you needed to hear it from him.

Snape sighed heavily, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Love potion," he confirmed finally, and you shuddered to hear what you already suspected. "And a shoddy one at that. It gave you a headache, right? That means it was weak enough for you to try and resist, but every time you tried, it would cause you pain…" You peered up at him, thinking back to the moment he'd come in, how all it took was a whiff of your empty glass to know exactly what was going on. He was so brilliant… knew exactly what to give you to end the potions effects. Knew the most effective way to make sure you'd actually take it. But the fact that you'd had to take it at all…

"Where were you?" you whispered, tightness creeping into your voice as you fought back fresh tears that the Calming Draught couldn't fully suppress.

Snape looked stricken as he stared back down at you, and you felt guilty for even asking him. You knew this wasn't his fault. _He_ hadn't given you a love potion, and he'd come to your aide before anything worse could happen… but…

"Some chaperone I turned out to be," he muttered softly, and you let yourself smile at his self-depreciation. It was a little funny, in a morbid kind of way. He hummed as he rubbed his forehead. You wondered if he had a headache too. "I'd dragged Lucius Malfoy out of the bar to give him a piece of my mind," he admitted finally. "The way he treated you, the things he said. They were deplorable and I…" He sighed again, slumping back against the pillows. "I should never have told them in the first place. After trusting you with my own…" he trailed off, closing his eyes as he recounted the rest. "I couldn't find you after I'd returned, and it was Slughorn who told me he'd seen you in the booth with Lockhart."

You tensed a little, clutching the pillow to your chest even tighter now, staring down at the creases and folds in the duvet. "I went in there willingly," you whispered. You weren't even sure if he could hear you. "I was mad… at the Malfoys. And then he showed up and offered to buy me a drink and I just… I didn't think it would hurt… He was so harmless the night before, I didn't think he'd…" You were spiraling a little. The Calming Draught could only do so much, and you pressed your face into the top of the pillow to staunch the flow of tears.

The bed shifted beside you, and you felt a warm hand against your arm, caressing it soothingly, if a bit awkwardly, as if he didn't really know how to do this. It was such a stark contrast to the death grip he'd held it with before. "This wasn't your fault," Snape said firmly, and you lifted your face from the pillow with a sniff. "Administering a love potion without consent is a criminal offence. You could press charges."

You knew that. It's something you learned quite early on in Potions class, when some stupid girl had worked up enough courage to ask Snape about how to make them. But… "Who's going to believe me?" you whispered miserably, peering up at your professor.

"What?" Snape asked, his hand stilling on your shoulder as he was startled by your question. But he really shouldn't have been.

"Who the hell is going to believe me?" You pushed yourself up with both of your hands, getting on the same level as your professor as you explained. "He's a celebrity. I'd gone in there with him of my own free will, and everything else happened behind closed, silence charmed curtains. All of _my_ evidence just got flushed down the loo. And…" You knew this was serious, but you found yourself smiling ruefully. "And you fucking _decked_ him, Professor. He might press charges against _you_."

Snape looked… sick. He looked absolutely sick to his stomach as he reflected on your words, as if he knew what it was like to be the victim of some great wrongdoing, and knowing there was absolutely no chance of the perpetrator being even so much as reprimanded. He looked like he wanted to say something to the contrary, to try and convince you that pressing charges, that telling someone, was the right thing to do, but every time he opened his mouth, he closed it again. Finally, he was the one to flop back onto the bed, almost pouting. "He deserved it."

You smiled a little wider, and you settled back onto the mattress yourself, pulling the pillow back into your arms as you curled yourself around it. "I can't argue with that."

There was another beat of silence, but this one was surprisingly comfortable. Maybe it was the Calming Draught, but for some reason you found yourself clinging to the… well they weren't _good_ things, but they were positive things. Snape punching Lockhart had been pretty spectacular. Snape coming to your rescue like some kind of pissed off mama bear had been… well, admittedly, it had been a little painful, but now that you were on the other side of it, it had been quite courageous. And Snape believing you, being righteously angry on your behalf…

God. You _loved_ him.

The silence stretched, and you were wondering if you ought to transfer yourself back over to your own bed, when Snape rolled onto his side to face you, a frown tugging at his lips. "Gwendolyn… What do you want to do?" he asked broodingly, and you felt your breath catch in your chest at the use of your first name. You hadn't gotten a chance to savor it yesterday…

Staring down at the duvet, you considered his question. You were happy, right here, right now. This was quiet. Calm. Comfortable. But you knew this wouldn't last forever. You knew that the sun would rise eventually. The thought of waking up in the morning to go to another bloody lecture, to face the Malfoy's, to have to look anyone in the eye who may have seen you enter that booth with Lockhart... "I want to go home," you said finally, your voice tight.

"Home," Snape repeated, sounding decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion. "To your mother?"

Oh… Was that an option? God, you would have to tell her about this, wouldn't you? Would it be easier to do in person? Over the phone? Through a letter? Ugh… no… You didn't want to think about that. You didn't want to _do_ any of that just yet. The thought of sinking into your mother's arms and telling her all that had happened terrified you, because you knew she'd want you to do something about it. But you just _couldn't_… Shaking your head, you gazed back up to your professor. "No… Home to Hogwarts," you clarified, and Snape nodded with understanding.

"We can catch the morning train," he promised you softly. "I don't think there's any reason for us to overstay." You sighed with relief, and you could feel your exhaustion taking over in the proceeding lull of silence, your eyes drifting closed to the sound of the crackling fire in the hearth. They only flickered open at the touch of his hand against your arm again, as he tentatively asked, "What else can I do for you?"

You smiled softly, blinking your eyes blearily before they slid shut again. "Just stay here with me," you whispered. "Please."

There was a pause, and you felt the mattress dip as he properly laid down beside you, his hand still on your arm as you felt sleep tug at your mind. "Alright."

394

**!TRIGGER WARNINGS!:** Gwen is going to be slipped a potion without her consent. This potion is going to be used to manipulate her. There will be dub-con kissing and touching. None of this is perpetrated by Snape. There will also be vomit.


	12. Chapter 12 - Flight of the Dreamer

You were ending your seventh year at Hogwarts the same way you had started it; pacing the dungeon floor outside of the Potion's classroom at the crack of dawn, and anxious out of your mind. The difference being that you'd actually been invited this time, which was a little nerve-wracking in its own way. You arrived early, earlier than Snape's note had recommended, because you were overwhelmed with the fear that there might not be enough time. In fact… time was nearly up. After your meeting with your professor, you would go to breakfast. And then after breakfast, you would be getting on the Hogwarts Express.

Probably for the last time.

You had been dreading this very moment for three months. After the absolute shit show that the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers had turned out to be, you'd returned to Hogwarts only to come face to face with the reality of having to sit your N.E.W.T.'s. The tests were fast approaching, but frankly, you'd been grateful for the distraction; pouring yourself into your studies had been an excellent excuse to not think about things. Things like how Gilderoy Lockhart had violated your mind and body, and you had practically invited him to do it. Or how much worse it could have been if Snape hadn't shown up when he had. Or about the hideous things you had spat into his face while your mind had not been your own.

Except… you actually ended up thinking about those things _constantly_. You held up fine, at first. For a couple of weeks after your return, you carried on as if nothing had happened. You went to classes, you studied for N.E.W.T.'s, you joked around with your friends. You were as strong and resilient as ever. You put yourself on auto-pilot and made it through, because if your façade so much as chipped, the whole thing would come crumbling down. Which was exactly what happened, when the flashbacks began.

They crept up on you gradually, but increased in frequency as your stress became unbearable. You would be doing something mundane, like walking to class, or sitting in the library, or worst of all, trying to sleep. And for absolutely no reason other than the fact that the human mind is want to latch on to suffering, you'd be back there. You'd be back in that little booth, with Lockhart's tongue down your throat, his hands on your body, reeking of cheap cologne. You'd be back on the elevator, feeling cramped and claustrophobic as you shoved and shouted at your professor. You'd be wallowing on the bathroom floor, begging for another invasion of your mind, because _anything_ was better than him hating you. You would agonize over how things might have been, had you acted differently. Done this, said that, gone there. But you were powerless to change _any_ of it.

You'd inevitably end up riding out your panic attack in a bathroom cubicle. Even if it started while you were in bed, you'd always end up in the loo. Your bed was too cozy for these types of feelings; it was too safe and warm to be tarnished with this sorrow. You were drawn to the tight quarters, the privacy of a latched door and a silencing charm. There was something inexplicably calming about the cold discomfort of sitting on a tile floor in the dark, letting your dark thoughts spill out of you like an overflowing sink.

You weren't coping well. You weren't coping _at all_. And it started to affect your waking life. You would be distracted during classes, anxious during free hours, and you truly couldn't remember the last time you'd gotten a good night's sleep (_Yes you could. His hand had still be on your arm when you woke up_). Under normal circumstances, the dramatic shift in your usual easygoing demeanor would have been cause for alarm, would surely have conjured up your friends concern. But the truth was, _everybody_ was stressed. Every seventh year looked just as haggard and exhausted as you did. All of your girlfriends were pulling their hair out over projects and exams and the beginning of the rest of their lives. Even Lawrence Hollingsworth had backed off of his pursuit of you, because he didn't have the time to spare for romantic endeavors. Nobody had taken notice of your profound suffering.

Well, of course, no one except…

All it had taken was for you to cancel _one_ private lesson, and you'd been called down to Snape's office during Herbology and asked to explain yourself. You'd gotten defensive, reminding him that he himself had told you to alert him if you ever needed a night off, but he countered that he wasn't concerned that you wanted to cancel a brewing session. In fact, he was well aware that you'd been flaking out on him for weeks. You'd skipped many of the free periods you were supposed to spend in his classroom fulfilling the requirements of your apprenticeship, making the excuse that you needed the extra time to study for your other classes. And Snape had tolerated this, understanding of the plight of the seventh year. He knew you had other exams besides Potions. But this time had been different. Because this time, you had sent him an _owl_ in order to cancel your lesson, instead of simply telling him in person. And he thought that was an awful lot of trouble to go through, just to avoid having to speak to him.

That's all it had taken for you to completely fall apart. Snape seemed to have been expecting it, perching himself on the arm of your chair (your_ chair? when had you started thinking of it as yours?_) and rubbing your back in soothing circles as you wept into your hands. When your tears subsided enough for you to be coherent, he'd offered you a Calming Draught, and you'd accepted it readily. He seemed to have a stash of them on hand, and you had a feeling that he did this sort of thing on the reg. Indeed, you'd gotten that impression back at the hotel too, when he'd held back your hair and pressed a cool cloth to your face as you threw up your guts. He was responsible for a house full of Slytherin's, after all; he probably got more practice taking care of children than he cared to admit.

After downing the potion and pulling yourself together, you reluctantly explained what was troubling you, admitting that you were, in fact, avoiding him, because every time you saw him, you'd be knocked over by the wave of memory. The flashbacks, the endless loop of 'what if's', the isolation you were experiencing, because you felt like you couldn't confide in anyone. Besides him. Because he already knew. And even if you had confessed to someone else… what if they doubted you? Your story? What if they blamed you instead? Lockhart was famous; what if they took his side?

It had been his suggestion that you finally talk to your mother about it. You felt guilty that he could so easily surmise that you hadn't told her yet; you'd been lying to her in your letters for weeks. At first you'd thought that everything was fine, that you were okay, so it wasn't worth talking about. But as it became a bigger problem, you felt like it was too late to admit that you'd been keeping something this monumental from her all this time. Writing to her about it now would feel cold, impersonal, like you didn't trust her, just like you didn't trust your friends. Snape had told you that this wasn't something that could be dealt with through notes.

So you had a vague idea of what was awaiting you when you were summoned to the Headmaster's office two days later. What you hadn't expected was to hear yelling from above as you made your way up the spiral staircase. And you were even less prepared to enter the office just in time to witness your mother popping Professor Snape across the cheek with an open handed slap, leaving an angry red welt on his otherwise ashen face. Vivian had been shouting, that it had been his job to protect you, to keep you safe. Snape, meanwhile, looked resigned to the lashing he was receiving; he'd barely even reacted to being hit, and stood stoically as your mother continued her verbal attack. Behind all of this commotion, Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, stroking his pet phoenix absently and making absolutely no effort to intervene. That was, until you started crying in the doorway, and the room went quiet before you suddenly found yourself wrapped up in your mother arms.

Through hiccups and tears, you told your mother everything. Snape had already explained the details of what had occurred at The Atticus, but you insisted that there was more to it than just a sequence of events. Like how Lockhart was famous in the wizarding world, so your hands were tied in terms of seeking justice. How you had felt okay when you'd first returned to Hogwarts, and you didn't want to burden her with something you thought wasn't going to be an issue. And most importantly, you insisted that Snape _had_ protected you. That he _had_ kept you safe. Because you had entered that booth on your own, but Snape had been the one to lead you out of it.

Your mother had… _reluctantly_ apologized to your professor, but Snape declined to accept it, because he believed he'd deserved it. Your mother sure didn't argue, but you tried to protest that, before Dumbledore had finally spoken up, insisting on giving you and your mother some time alone, before leading Snape out of the office with a promise to return shortly. In the soft silence of Dumbledore's office, your mother had many questions, and you answered them dutifully. You had been right, that she was going to want you to do something about this, to try and press charges or talk to the press, but to you, that wasn't the solution. To you, that just might mean having to see Lockhart again, having to tell your story over and over again, having to suffer through people doubting you and calling you a liar… and your mother eventually conceded. She turned focus to the more pressing matter instead.

She'd pulled you down onto the stone floor with her, making you sit cross-legged as she held your hands tightly in the space between you. You were familiar with this set up, and you closed your eyes obediently as you started counting your breaths. Vivian did the same, and soon your head felt tingly and empty, your focus trained on your breath, and the pressure of your mothers hands wrapped around yours. She reminded you that the thing that was haunting you was in the past now. You were fretting over something that you literally couldn't do anything to change. And acknowledging that it was something completely out of your control might help you actually let go of it. It was time to start living in the present moment again, and emptying your mind like this, when you felt overwhelmed with emotions and memories, was going to help you focus on that.

It had seemed overly simple at the time. But the thought lingered in your mind long after Dumbledore had returned, after the tearful goodbye with your mother, after the exhausted trudge back to your dormitory. But as you shed your clothing and slipped into your four-poster, despite it being the middle of the day, you felt like for the first time in a long time, you might actually be able to sleep. It was as though a great burden had been lifted from you, and now that you were no longer required to keep it aloft, you were finally allowed to rest.

Things slowly got easier from that point forward. The flashbacks still came, but now when they did, you were more prepared for them, your mother's words repeating over and over in your head as you fought against them. You still hid in the bathroom, and you still cried, but it was no longer the uncontrollable wailing of a broken woman, but the hot, silent tears of someone who was frustrated with their own reactions. You would breathe. You would count the tiles on the floor. Sometimes you'd cast small spells, the childish ones that conjured birds or created meaningless sparks, but were pretty to look at. You would eventually remember that you were here, now. And not back there anymore.

Snape had never mentioned anything about it again, much to your relief. You still couldn't believe that his first time meeting your mother, whom you'd always spoken of so admiringly, had resulted in her _smacking him in the face_. Though, it might have made it clear where you'd gotten it from, and if he thought anything about it, he sure didn't let on. He never asked how you were holding up, and honestly, you appreciated it, because that made you think that he could see exactly how much better you were doing already. He'd put you right back to work when you finally started showing up for your apprenticeship duties again, and he didn't miss a beat when you arrived for your first private lesson in two weeks, putting you right back into the thick of it like you'd never even been gone. He treated you the same as always, and it helped you to start feeling _normal_ again.

And just as you were getting used to that quiet normalcy again, your academic career at Hogwarts had come to a close. Exams were over. Your apprenticeship had ended. You'd taken your N.E.W.T.'s, and with any luck, you would be able to start calling yourself Gwendolyn Goode, Potions Master any day now. Your scores hadn't been released yet, but it was only a matter of time. And to top it off… you'd been offered a job. You'd asked Snape to confirm if _that_ letter had been real and not a prank as well. What were you going to do without him there to validate all of your correspondence for you?

…What were you going to do without him?

"Miss Goode?"

You stumbled slightly as you abruptly halted your pacing, turning your head to see Snape standing in the doorway to his classroom, already looking entirely fed up with your clumsiness this early in the morning. Glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer. You were going to miss this. You smiled awkwardly as you set yourself to rights, taking a tentative step toward him, trying to regain some poise. "Professor Snape."

He rolled his eyes and pressed his back against the door frame, and you knew an invitation to enter when you saw one. Slipping past him through the door, you stepped into the entirely empty Potions classroom, startled to find all of the tables pressed against one wall, the stools stacked up on top of them, the cauldrons slotted below. It made the room feel empty and hollow, and you felt your heart clench strangely. It reminded you of a funeral, one with an open casket, like something you didn't wish to be seeing. So you didn't linger. Walking quickly through the unfamiliar space, you entered his office well before he did, and you were pleased to find all of the specimens and jars right where they should be. That was more like it. Your ran your fingertips over the back of the worn, brown leather chair you had come to start thinking of as your own, before sitting down and waiting for him to join you.

Taking a seat behind his desk, there was a moment where you simply stared at each other, sitting in this position you'd both been in countless times before, in a place you may never see again. The air felt dense and thick, like cold honey, but not nearly as sweet. You were wondering how you were supposed to breathe like this, when he finally broke the suffocating silence. "So," he began, sounding casual as he leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap as he crossed his legs at the knee. "When do you leave for Albania?"

You relaxed, settling back into your own chair with relieved sigh at his conversational tone. You weren't sure if this had been the purpose of asking you down here, but you were more than happy to talk academics and careers. It was familiar territory. "As soon as my N.E.W.T. scores are released," you explained, remembering the copious amount of letters you'd been exchanging with Damocles Belby over the last month. Those poor, poor owls. "It's just a formality, I've been told. I've already been guaranteed the position." You glanced back up to him with an arched brow of your own. "Apparently I received some _outstanding_ references."

Snape looked entirely nonplussed by your accusation. He merely shrugged a sharp shoulder as he droned, "Pomona Sprout _is_ rather influential." You didn't even try to hide your grin, though Snape did a fairly good job at suppressing his. While Professor Sprout had indeed been one of the references you'd listed, along with Professors Kettleburn and Sinistra, you had a feeling their recommendations hadn't been the ones that had set you apart. Though, you couldn't rule out that Slughorn might have had a say in it, too. Snape looked satisfied with your explanation though. "Very good," he acknowledged, nodding his head once, his tone dipping down to one of genuine approval. "You've worked hard to get here. You deserve it."

You weren't going to cry this time. That had already happened when he'd first congratulated you on being recruited to Belby's research team. But you couldn't fight the way your throat clenched. "Thank you, sir," you muttered, letting your gaze fall to the stone floor, because you didn't think your heart could bare it if he looked at you any more earnestly.

And perhaps he sensed your tenuous emotions. His baritone slid right back up to casual as he remarked, "It'll be a shame to see you go, really." That was… a rather bold thing to say, and you felt composed enough to lift your eyes from the ground. Snape's head was tipped back against his chair, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation with his fingers steepled against his chest. "I don't think I'll live long enough to see another student as brilliant as you grace these halls."

You smiled, despite yourself; while that sure sounded like a compliment wrapped up in a self-depreciating bow, there also seemed to be a genuine lack of faith in the next generation of students that was entering Hogwarts. You felt a pang of sympathy for the man, but on the other hand, it wasn't like he was helping the situation by being a ray of sunshine or anything. "Don't sell yourself short, Professor," you teased back. "They can't all be complete dunderheads. And besides, you aren't _that_ old."

Both of his eyebrows shot up his forehead then, and you really had to fight not to giggle as he leveled you with a disbelieving leer. "_Cheeky_," he accused simply, though he too seemed to struggle with his a smirk as you fought against your own. "You're lucky it's too late to take away any more house points," he warned you. And that seemed to sober up the both of you. An unintentionally grim reminder that time was running out.

You still weren't sure why he'd called you down here. Easy banter and friendly ribbing was all well and good. You were going to miss matching wits with him dearly. But whatever true agenda he had for requesting this meeting, you had a motive of your own. Scraping your teeth over your bottom lip, you didn't wait for the chance to convince yourself this was a dumb question before blurting out, "Can I write to you?"

The silence that followed was… disconcerting, but he seemed to be considering the question. At the very least, he was considering _you_ quite intensely, as if trying to discern your motivations. However you didn't feel him digging around in your head, which was alright, but your heart sank as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Do you really think you'll want to spend your precious free time writing to your old Potions professor?" he asked, and you were tempted to remind him again that he wasn't that old.

But he'd already called you out for your cheek once. So you simply smiled and shook your head. "I'll find the time" you assured him. In fact, even if he'd told you for some reason that you _couldn't_ write to him, you probably would have done it anyway. You were on the cusp of adulthood. You were mere months away from packing your bags and portkeying your entire life to another country. You were stepping into the darkness, and the light you had been following all of these years… was going to be left behind. But maybe, if you could maintain this one connection, with the one thing that kept you feeling safe and grounded more than anything else… perhaps you'd be able to navigate this new wilderness.

Snape still looked puzzled by your request. You couldn't just _tell_ him that you were afraid of facing the rest of the world without him there to protect you. And he seemed reluctant to peer into your mind to parse the truth, your skull remaining decidedly beetle free. But he finally relented, deciding not to outright question your motivations as he nodded his head. "As you wish," he conceded, and you smiled with a small sigh of relief.

Your personal mission accomplished, all that was left was to wait for him to finally reveal _his_ reason for wanting to see you, and you didn't have to wait long. He pulled open one of the drawers of his desk before announcing, "I have a gift for you." You sat up a little straighter in response, your attention thoroughly garnered and your curiosity piqued as he retrieved a small, black velvet pouch from the drawer. "Consider it a graduation present."

You stared at the small bag, reminded simultaneously of the pouch of crystals your mother had given you in your first year, as well as the black velvet ribbons you always used to tie up the pens you'd been giving him for years. The thought made your smile wobble slightly, but you kept it together long enough to press your luck one last time. "After all these years…" whispered dramatically, adding a pained little choke to your voice as you held your hand over your heart. "You're finally going to give _me_ something in return?"

Snape's mouth fell open, his brows pressing together with incredulity. He scoffed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his desk, pointing an accusatory finger in your direction. "You know, I'm definitely not going to be missing that _sassy_ attitude of yours," he pronounced, and you actually _laughed_ at that. Like he was one to talk! Who did he think you _learned_ it from?

"Yes you will," you assured him, your cheeks actually starting to ache from how widely you were smiling. Snape was doing his damnedest to appear thoroughly unamused, but you saw his own scowl tremble dangerously. Maybe he was going to miss this too.

"Do you want it or not?" he deadpanned, dangling the black pouch from one of his fingers, and you managed to subdue your amusement, though you couldn't to completely quell your smile. On the one hand, you knew he was teasing you again, but on the other, the threat was a real possibility. Best not to risk it.

"Yes, of course. My apologies," you replied quickly, doing your best to appear prim and contrite as you straightened up in your chair, trying to convey the picture of innocence. He rolled his eyes at you, but you didn't miss his own smirk as he held out the bag for you to take. Standing from your chair, you stepped the short distance to his desk, and took the small pouch from his hands. Your mirth fell away quickly as your fingers brushed together. He'd gotten you a _gift_. The gesture itself was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him. You couldn't imagine what it might be. Staring down at the small black bag, you ran your thumb over its velvety softness. "Should I open it now?"

"I insist upon it," he replied, leaning back in his chair to watch as he folded his hands in his lap once again. Glancing from him to the bag, you gently pulled at the cinched opening before reaching inside, where your fingers come into contact with something cold and smooth. Tipping the bag over, a small, glass phial fell into your palm. You knew what it was almost immediately, but your brain was struggling to cope with its reality.

"Holy _shit_," you gasped uncouthly, and paid absolutely no mind to the snort from across the desk as you stared down at the bottle disbelievingly. It was no more than an inch in length, straight edged and rounded at the bottom, its cork stopper sealed with a dripping of black wax. Inside, its pearly contents glistened with an opalescent brilliance in the lamplight. It was captivatingly beautiful to look at, but you still couldn't believe… "Are these… are these _really-?_"

"Phoenix Tears," Snape provided for you, and you couldn't pull your eyes away from them as you rolled the phial between your fingers. So they _were_ real. "You're familiar with their properties?" he asked a bit louder, as if trying to catch your attention and bring you back down to earth.

"Of course I am," you stammered, borderline insulted that he would even insinuate that you somehow didn't know what Phoenix Tears did. It was knowing _exactly_ what they did that made their existence in this little bottle seem so unfathomable. "How did…? Where did you…?" You realized you couldn't form a proper enquiry without sounding ungrateful or distrustful. You had no doubt that these were the genuine article, Snape would never provide you with a fake, but the sheer _magnitude_ of this gift… Jesus Christ how much did these _cost_? Was it even _possible_ to buy them? "These are _extremely_ rare," you muttered, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. And you winced, because he almost looked _angry_ with you.

"Indeed they are," he agreed, nodding his head toward the bottle you still held reverently in your hands. "Which is why I must insist that you keep them close, and preserve them for the sole purpose of saving your own life." He hooked his folded hands over his crossed knee as he leaned in towards you, gazing up at you with such a fierce intensity, you didn't dare look away. "They may not reverse the effects of a werewolf bite," he explained, his voice grave with warning. "But they _will_ keep you from dying from one." Settling back into his chair, he let out a heavy sigh, the resentment etched into his features slowly smoothing out. That anger hadn't been meant for you, you realized, but you weren't sure _what_ had caused it. Glancing from your face down to the bottle, he added in a softer tone, "I sincerely hope you'll never have to use them."

He was protecting you.

_God_.

You were leaving the country. You were going away. You had no idea when you'd come back. If you'd ever see him again when you did. And _still_ he was protecting you. You felt your heart throb painfully in your chest at the implications of this. Suddenly, you didn't want to leave. This was a mistake. Leaving this man behind was a _mistake_.

But what could you do?

"Thank you, sir," you whispered, your voice thick as you dropped your gaze to the tiny phial. You didn't want to cry. Your own tears weren't nearly as valuable.

"Don't thank me," Snape drawled, and the return of his customary baritone forced you to glance up. He was waving a hand dismissively toward the little bottle, a harsh glint in his eyes. "_You're_ the one who insists on working with some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet."

Your mouth fell open, and you weren't sure if he was being serious or facetious this time. You had the presence of mind to be defensive, and you straightened up to your full height as you protested, "I want to-"

"-help people," Snape finished for you, his tone taking on a more pacifying quality as he held his hand up in surrender. "I know. But please, don't get yourself killed in the process." It was such a genuine request, so earnest and sincere, that you felt that painful throb behind your ribcage again. _Don't leave him. Don't go._ He offered you a smirk then, and you readied yourself to absolutely _hate_ whatever he was about to say next. "It would be a massive waste of all the hard work I put in to teaching you."

You were right. You hated it. He really had a lot of nerve calling _you_ sassy. You smiled vexedly as you shook your head, slipping the bottle back into its velvet pouch and before sliding it securely into the pocket of your skirt. "I won't get myself killed," you promised. And you'd just opened your mouth to say something sassy in return, like how you'd certainly hate to squander all of _his_ hard work, when the sound of the school bells clanged through dungeon, signaling the start of breakfast. Your heart shot up into your throat as you glanced up at the ceiling. _Ask not for whom the bell tolls…_

The silence that followed after the bells settled down was nothing short of oppressive. It was only broken by the creak of leather and wood as Snape rose from his chair, stepping out from behind his desk and hovering a few feet away. You quivered, your heart pounding loudly in your ears as you tried to will time to stand still.

"This is it then," you whispered, voice cracking as you fidgeted in place, unsure what to do, where to look, when to go. You couldn't just _leave_. You _couldn't_. There was only one option that felt right, and though it terrified you, you closed your eyes and took a steadying breath. "I'm… going to hug you," you announced feebly, unable to open your eyes in order to gauge his reaction, far too afraid of finding rejection there. "You're welcome to stop me but… I rather hope that you don't."

You cracked open one eye, and you had to snort as you found him peering down at you with that artfully arched brow, possibly judging you harshly, but not outright refusing you either. He wasn't going to stop you, so you didn't hesitate as you stepped forward, sliding your arms around his waist, under the draping of his cloak. You pressed your face into his chest (_teakwood, coriander, clove_), unable to look at him as you murmured against his heart, "Thank you… for everything."

It took a few moments, but you eventually felt his arms encircle you. You didn't hold back your tears now, and you felt him sigh under your cheek as your tears soaked into his coat. _Don't go, don't go, don't go. _

You weren't sure how long you stood like that, wrapped in the warm embrace of black wool and clove bud, but he was the one who eventually ended it, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing them lightly. You took the hint, letting your arms drop reluctantly to your sides as you gazed up at him, tears still streaming down your face. He reached a hand up automatically, but hesitated a moment before swiping his thumb across your cheek. "It's been an honor and a pleasure having you as a student, Miss Goode," he intoned softly, his own voice turning thick. "Be safe."

Despite your best efforts, the tears continued to fall, though they were with gratitude instead of regret. You raised your own hand, placing it gently against the back of his, keeping his fingers against your face as you whispered, "You too."


	13. Chapter 13 - Apart

July 14, 1990

Miss Goode,

Since you expressed a desire to keep up a correspondence with me, I've taken it upon myself to send the first owl. It just so happens that I have your N.E.W.T. scores in my possession, and I hoped it might soften the blow if you were to hear the bad news from me.

It is my deepest regret to inform you that you did not, in fact, surpass my N.E.W.T. score in Potions, as you had been so very eager to do. However, I am pleased to report that you matched me by receiving perfect marks. (I don't know where you got it in your head that you could somehow exceed a perfect score. Arrogant much?)

I've included my copy of your results in the envelope. I don't know if it will help to expedite your departure for Albania, but I thought it might be worth a shot. Your official documentation should be arriving within the next two weeks. I hope you aren't feeling too put out by this overwhelming setback.

-Professor Snape

P.S. Congratulations, Potions Master.

/

July 15, 1990

Dear Professor Snape,

Thank you ever so much for the heart attack. Just the pick-me-up I needed this morning. I don't know how I'm going to cope with this devastating news, but I'm sure that I will find a way to carry on with this bitter disappointment hanging over my head. No idea how I managed to think beating your score was even a remote possibility. I must have received some vastly over-exaggerated encouragement about it at some point.

Seriously though, thank you for letting me know that I passed, and for including your copy. I would have surely spent the next two weeks fretting over it, but now I shouldn't have to. Instead I can concentrate on fretting over packing all of my worldly possessions, securing a portkey, moving to another country. You know, trivial stuff.

That reminds me of something I wanted to ask you before I left, but given certain circumstances, never got the chance. I'll be moving to Albania, where I assume they speak Albanian. How exactly to Wizards learn foreign languages? Is there a spell or a magical device I ought to know about, or do I need to take a crash course in Albanian at some muggle school? I'm sure I could ask Prof. Belby, but it's gotten to the point where I feel like I should have asked that months ago, and I don't want him to think I'm an idiot quite so soon. Since you already know I'm an idiot, I feel less humiliated asking you about it.

Thanks in advance!

~Gwendolyn Goode, POTIONS MASTER!

/

July 16, 1990

Miss Gwendolyn Goode Potions Master,

You're right. You are an idiot. However, a student is only as informed as her teacher, and perhaps that makes me the idiot for not teaching you this one myself while you were still here. Do forgive my lack of foresight.

On the back of this letter will be the formula for Polyglot Potion. Brewing is fairly simple; you can whip up a batch in an afternoon. However, some of the ingredients are expensive (i.e., Sphinx tongue). You might be able to save some money by brewing in bulk, which I encourage you to do anyway, since you'll always want a batch on hand. The potion is shelf stable for several weeks, so don't worry about it spoiling before you get to use it.

The properties of Polyglot are simple; each dose will grant you the ability to understand and speak any language being spoken around you. Think of it as Polyjuice's less talented cousin, and similarly, remember that the duration of its effects depend on how well the potion has been brewed. This refined formula should last you about an hour and a half, so either keep a flask on hand, or keep your outings short.

You'll likely be working with all English speakers anyway, but this ought to help, should you wish to venture outside of your little research bubble.

Let me know how it goes, and write again once you're settled in Albania.

-Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master (Before You)

/

August 1, 1990

Dear Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master (Before Me),

The Polyglot Potion is brilliant! You were right about Sphinx tongue being stupid expensive, but I managed to buy two of them without going broke. It ought to be enough to hold me over until I get paid. I brewed the first batch before leaving London and it turned out beautifully. Dealing with the Albanian Ministry and settling in among the locals has been a breeze!

Sorry for not writing sooner, but obviously it has been a whirlwind. I'm officially in Saranda, a coastal city on a gulf of the Ionian Sea. It's really unbelievably beautiful here. Belby has secured… what I can only describe as a castle, though it's nothing like Hogwarts. It looks like crumbling ruins to the muggles, and that's honestly not too far off from its reality either. I'll kindly call it 'rustic'. But I can see the Mediterranean from the hill we're on, and I'll gladly take 'rustic' if I get to wake up to that every morning. I'll be living here for the foreseeable future, along with Belby, Eleanor Young and Alexander Mali. I think you might know Mali? I remember meeting him briefly at The Atticus. They're both quite a bit older than I am, and they've been here for longer too. I feel like a first year again.

I'll have to tell you now, I won't be able to discuss the makeup of the potion itself in these letters. It's obviously proprietary, and I can't fault Belby for keeping it close to the chest. It's kind of a shame though; I would have liked to talk to you about it in detail, but I already have a few ideas for improving it based on your methods.

Research officially begins next Monday. Belby has 6 volunteer werewolves lined up. They're all Albanian natives, except for two who are Greek. They'll Apparate to the castle a few days before the full moon and stay here while we administer tests, and while they recover from their transformations. I hear they're being generously compensated, which I'm glad for.

We aren't giving them any potion for the first full moon though. We'll just be observing their natural transformation as a control. This castle has a dungeon with holding cells, and Belby has replaced the iron bars with silver ones. He apparently got those generous donations he was asking for. We'll also be using the applicable Protego charms, and those combined with the silver bars should be more than enough to keep everyone safe, including the werewolves.

Completely unrelated, the bottle of Phoenix Tears makes a lovely charm necklace.

~Gwendolyn Goode, Potions Master (Thanks To You)

/

August 7, 1990

Dear Professor Snape,

It's about 7 o'clock in the morning right now. I've been awake for nearly 24 hours, but I'm too shaken up to even consider trying to sleep. So I'm writing to you instead, because it's the only thing I can think of to do.

I witnessed my first werewolf transformation last night. I don't know why I was expecting Lon Chaney Jr., but I was an idiot for thinking it could ever be that simple. I don't think any horror movie could have prepared me for what it's really like. You're well versed in Defense Against the Dark Arts. You don't need me to describe it. But reading that their bones break and reform during their transformation is considerably different from actually hearing it happen. That popping sound is going to be in my nightmares whenever I finally do get to sleep.

After the trauma of the transformation came the observation. Mali, Young and I were each assigned two werewolves to survey for the night, with Belby overseeing all of us. We noted any behaviors that appeared to be unique to each wolf, so that when we start administering potion next month, we can see if there's any marked difference in the way they act under its influence. It was exhausting, mentally and emotionally, to sit down in a dungeon behind a barrier spell, and watch two wolves systematically tear themselves apart. Grey Wolf was prone to chewing and scratching herself, while Brown Wolf spent his time charging the bars and scraping at the floor until his paws turned bloody. I obviously can't give you their real names, but they've been assigned as my charges for the remainder of the research project. I just finished administering Blood Replenisher's and applying Essence of Dittany to both of them. The aftermath was just as horrific as everything else. I've always fancied myself to have a strong stomach (when I'm not being slipped Purging Potions), but I came dangerously close to losing it most of the night. I've never seen gore like that outside of a movie theater.

Reading back, this might make it sound like I'm afraid of them. I'm not. But my heart aches for them. Grey Wolf was only turned two years ago, while Brown Wolf has been afflicted for almost his entire life. To go through this every single fucking month for an entire lifetime… It only strengthens my conviction that I'm where I need to be. If this potion Belby has developed really is a cure, or an inhibitor, or at least something that can make this condition easier to bear, so many people will be relieved of their suffering, and hopefully get to shed the stigma they've been burdened with through no fault of their own.

I feel a little better now. Calmer anyway. I think I might be able to sleep. Sorry for the downer of a letter, but writing to you seems to ease my mind. Next full moon we start administering potion, so hopefully I'll have better news then.

I hope you're well.

~Gwendolyn Goode

/

August 9, 1990

Dear Miss Goode,

I'm sorry to read that your first experience with the project was so harrowing for you. However, you're right, Lon Chaney Jr. was a poor expectation to have. Good D.A.D.A. professors are hard to come by these days, it seems; I wish you had been more prepared, and I should have had the foresight to warn you about the realities of it myself.

Beyond my interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I also had the misfortune of encountering a fully transformed werewolf in my youth. I'll spare you the details of my own teenage idiocy, but suffice it to say I'm intimately aware of just how fearsome and dangerous werewolves can be up close. I commend Belby for his innovation with the silver bars, but all the same, I'm glad you are keeping the Phoenix Tears close.

You say you aren't afraid of them, but do consider that a modicum of fear can be healthy, especially if it aides in your self-preservation. I can hear your Hufflepuff heart breaking from here, so I'll use my Slytherin cynicism to remind you that no matter how lovely Miss Grey and Mister Brown are between moon cycles, neither will hesitate to kill you while under the lunar influence. Use your empathy to care for them when the sun rises, but don't let it cloud your judgment at night. Even once you start administering potion, it could take years to get the formulation perfected to a point where your wolves become lapdogs. Or preferably just stay human.

I'm sure that witnessing the next transformation will be less traumatic for you. I don't recommend getting your hopes up that the first potion variation will have much effect, but at least you're prepared for what's coming now. If you find writing to me in the wee hours of the morning to be a comfort, then I'll be awaiting your owl after the next full moon. I suppose I ought to take some responsibility for sending you out into the world so direly underprepared.

Stay safe.

-Severus Snape

/

April 3, 1991

Dear Professor Snape,

Not much to report after the full moon on Saturday; it was about the same as the last one. The potion continues to make the wolves more docile, but they're still spending the night pacing the cells, growling and snapping at us, being restless. They act less like rabid wolves and more like scrappy stray dogs, which I guess is an improvement, but they still remain dangerous, so is it really? And Miss Grey started self-mutilating while transformed again, so that was a bit of a step backwards. Time for more adjustments I can't talk to you about. Hooray!

Anyway, another standard full moon report isn't my real reason for writing you. Something… odd happened last night, and I thought it might be of particular interest to you. Miss Gray took a little longer than usual to recover from her transformation this time, so she stayed at the castle with me until Tuesday. On Tuesday night, she was feeling in much higher spirits, so we went to our favorite local bar, the Rathskeller, which is attached to one of the inns in magical Saranda. Nothing about this is particularly unusual; we (i.e. Mali, Young, our volunteers and I) all go to this bar together pretty regularly because it's close to the castle and it's nice to socialize outside of the project. What was unusual, was that I saw Professor Quirrell at the bar last night.

I honestly wasn't sure if it was him or not at first. The only time I ever met him was when he came to my home the summer before my first year to tell me that I was a witch. I recognized his face almost instantly, but he seemed like a totally different person from the pleasant (if a bit shy) man that came to my house that day. I never took Muggle Studies or anything, so I don't know if he's changed over the years. I didn't talk to him directly; I wasn't sure if he'd even remember me. I'm sure he gave 'The Talk' to plenty of half-bloods and Muggle-borns so why would he? But Grey and I did sit kinda close by him at the bar, and he was just acting so paranoid. Stuttering and stumbling over his words, constantly looking over his shoulder, stuff like that. It was weird. Equally weird was the turban. Has he had that for a while, or is that a recently acquired accessory for him? He wasn't at the bar for too long; I think he had a cup of tea or something, and then headed upstairs, where I guess he's staying at the inn.

It was just surreal seeing him there. Why isn't he at Hogwarts? Did he quit or something? I know it's the middle of spring semester, and it's certainly beautiful here, but I don't think Saranda is a primo Spring Break locale. I wish I'd just gone and talked to him myself, but… Oh well. Here I am talking to you about it instead. I'm just burning with questions, Professor, so don't leave me hanging!

~Gwendolyn Goode

/

April 5, 1991

Dear Miss Goode,

Setbacks in research are to be expected. There are so many variables that finding a perfect formulation less than a year out would be nothing short of miraculous, and not every variation will result in an improvement to the potion. I am sorry to read that the setbacks are having a negative effect on the volunteers though. It sounds like you and Miss Grey have become quite close; I didn't realize that you were permitted to socialize with your subjects, but I suppose it makes sense, given the length of time you'll be working together, and the level of trust that needs to be built. Just remember what I said last year: don't let your guard down just because she's your friend when the moon is waning.

Now, on to your burning questions. I must confessed, I was rather shocked to read your letter. Last we heard from Quirinus, he was in the Black Forest in Germany searching for vampires, and was going to be heading to West Africa next to investigate an influx of zombies. Albania was never mentioned in his itinerary. I should explain, he hasn't quit; he's supposedly taking a sabbatical to "gain firsthand experience" in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he's slated to be the teacher of next year, much to my chagrin. For as long as I've known him, he's always held a theoretical fondness for the subject, but never once had he expressed a desire to teach it as well. The rest of the staff here at Hogwarts was baffled when he announced that he was going to quit Muggle Studies and take a year off to hunt monsters instead.

As for his behavior, I agree with your initial assessment; the man has always been quite amiable, but he's timid to a fault. I've been working with him for nearly 10 years now, and though we've never been close, you still get to know a person after all that time. This paranoia as you describe it is news to me (as is the turban), and frankly it's troubling. If he's been intentionally seeking out the dark arts for months now, it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that he's been cursed or otherwise influenced by something to cause that sort of shift in personality.

I know you wrote to me essentially seeking out juicy gossip, and I gave you conjecture in return. We won't get any definitive answers until he comes back to Hogwarts in September. That being said, if you see him again, I think it would behoove you to avoid him. I don't like the sound of all you've described, and you've certainly got enough on your plate as it is. Continue to use your better judgement.

-Severus Snape

/

November 4, 1991

Snape,

Were you going to tell me that a mountain troll made its way into the Hogwarts dungeons, or was I just supposed to read about that in the Daily Prophet myself?

~Gwen

/

November 5, 1991

Miss Goode,

To be fair, I was dealing with a considerably larger and more ferocious problem at the time. I didn't even get to see the troll until it was already effectively knocked out, by a group of reckless, insolent first years no less (can you guess which House?). Suffice it to say I've got my work cut out for me this year. If you're looking for more details than The Prophet could provide, I'm afraid those have been hard to come by. No one knows how a bloody mountain troll made it into the castle, but I have my suspicions that somebody let it in. And I think you know who it is I suspect by this point.

I'll assume all is well on your end. The work must be getting quite intense if all you can manage to write is one incredibly cheeky sentence.

-Severus Snape

/

June 13, 1992

Gwendolyn,

I hate to write you so close to the next full moon. I know your workload increases around this time, but I felt it was important to write you about this as soon as possible. I would rather you hear it from me (and no, it isn't going to be a petty joke about N.E.W.T.'s this time).

I'm sure you already know by now that Quirinus Quirrell is dead. His obituary appeared in the paper recently, citing his demise as being the result of a 'workplace accident.' That's putting it incredibly mildly. I think he got caught up with much more than he bargained for while in Albania, so I advise you to continue using extreme caution whenever you leave the castle. Whatever Quirrell picked up while he was there might be making its way back.

That isn't what I wanted to write to you about though. Dumbledore has already chosen the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for next year. I'm certain that the announcement will be headline news, and I wanted to let you know personally, before you came across it in the Prophet… It's Gilderoy Lockhart. I believe Dumbledore has taken him on as a teacher in an attempt to expose him for the slimy fraud he really is. But I sincerely have to wonder at what expense.

I suppose I ought to add 'keeping an eye on suspicious D.A.D.A. professors' to my job description. But I will keep an eye on him nonetheless. I won't allow anyone to fall prey to him again while under my watch. And I'll be more subtle than punching him in the face this time.

Don't hasten to reply. Get through this next moon and write to me when you can.

-Severus Snape

/

June 20, 1992

Dear Severus,

It's been nearly a week since I received your letter. I'm sorry for the delay, though I know you understand.

I feel like we're finally getting somewhere with this potion. We've figured out that administering smaller doses in the days leading up to the full moon yield a stronger calming effect than just giving them one big dose on the night of the full moon. Some of our volunteers are even reporting being able to remember what they do while they're transformed, which has almost never been the case before.

They're starting to retain their human consciousness while they're transformed, but sometimes they still can't control their impulses, especially where 'prey' is concerned. We have an impeccably rat free dungeon these days. But I feel like we're getting so close. A few more adjustments in the ingredient ratios and we could have a potion that renders a werewolf completely calm and docile while under the effects of the full moon. Perhaps not the cure we've been looking for, but I really believe we're on the right track towards developing one.

Alright. I guess I can't pad this letter any further. Thank you for telling me about Lockhart. For not letting me find out about this through the papers. I don't know how I would have reacted, seeing that. Betrayed, maybe, since Dumbledore knows what happened. But I hope he will be successful in his attempt to expose him, even though I'm not sure how he's going to do so.

I still wonder sometimes if I did the right thing, by not telling anyone, by not trying to expose him myself. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but what if he's taken advantage of other people since me? What if I could have prevented that by telling my story and warning people about him? Even if nobody really believed me, it would have made people question him, right? I know it's no use dwelling on What If's. I've finally learned that, but sometimes it still sneaks up on me.

Maybe it's because I'm utterly exhausted, but I think it's rather sweet, you promising to 'keep an eye on him' on my behalf. I appreciate that, especially because I know you'll do it, too. Please don't punch him in the face again, because I don't want you to get in trouble. How do you think he'll react when he sees you again? Do you think he'll even remember? Part of me hopes he doesn't.

I promise to keep my wits about me. I'm rather sorry to hear about Quirrell, actually. He seemed like such a nice wizard the one time I met him. I can't imagine what he 'picked up' while he was here to cause him such harm. But I certainly won't go out looking for it.

Thank you again.

~Gwendolyn Goode

/

October 12, 1992

Severus,

This isn't a cure.

Last night, Belby decided we've reached peak formulation. The ratios, the administration, the effects. He's decided they're all perfect and we don't need to do any further improvement, only test this final formula to make sure we continue to get consistent results.

And I can't deny that the results are good. We've achieved complete cognizance in transformed werewolves; they're entirely in possession of their human mental faculties while they're in wolf form. They remember everything that happened after they turn back. They spend the full moons sleeping now, curled up in their beds and completely ignoring the external stimuli we send in to the cells. They won't even bother with rats or rabbits any more. They're completely aware and docile. They're harmless.

But this doesn't feel like a victory to me.

I asked Belby if we would continue to work towards finding a full cure. You know what he did? He laughed at me. He didn't even answer me, he just laughed and ruffled my hair like I'm some sort of child. Or a Hufflepuff, I guess.

I thought we were going to eradicate this affliction. I thought we were going to end the suffering of all lycanthropes, and end the stigma that hangs around them. We haven't invented a cure. We've invented a band-aid, and I'm sick about it.

You probably think I'm over reacting. It's just that I put my heart and soul into this project. Maybe I'm desensitized to it, having been consumed by it for over two years now. Should I take this for the milestone it is, or fight to continue further down the path because I'm not happy with the destination we've come to?

I'm sorry. I realize that I just word-vomited all over this page. That can't be very attractive. Please don't call me a Hufflepuff Bleeding Heart too though.

~Gwendolyn Goode

/

October 13, 1992

Dear Gwendolyn,

While you are, in fact, a Hufflepuff Bleeding Heart, I don't think it's unusual that you're feeling disappointment over something like this. You entered into this project believing you were going to do one thing, but ended up with something else. However I also think you ought to be proud of what you have accomplished. You haven't invented a band-aid, you've invented a safety catch for a loaded gun, to use another muggle metaphor.

I realize that I am speaking from the point of view of someone who is not a werewolf. Obviously, your personal goal has been to help werewolves themselves, but consider the fact that you are helping to keep non-werewolves safe as well. You're right, this may not strip away the stigma that werewolves have carried on their backs for hundreds of years, but it may begin a shift in public awareness. People are much less afraid of a dog with a muzzle on.

I think what you've accomplished is admirable, Gwendolyn. I know you've put your heart into this; you've done so with everything you've ever worked on. Just because this research project has reached a conclusion does not mean that your personal research has to end here. Celebrate this milestone now, and then one day consider that you can head your own project to put an end to lycanthropy once and for all.

I'm proud of you. Don't lose your focus because of this; you still have a few more moons to go, and you need to stay sharp. But know that you've done well.

-Severus Snape

/

December 24, 1992

Dear Gwendolyn,

I can't recall if we've ever discussed Pensieve's before, but I'm sure you're familiar with the concept of scyring bowls, yes? Trelawney told me you learned about them in divination, at the very least. Inside of the package this letter was attached to will be a bottle, and inside of this bottle is your Christmas present. I thought with all of the stress you've been under, you could use a pick-me-up. Pour the contents of the bottle into the scrying bowl, and dip your face into it. Just trust me on this; it will be quite worth it.

Happy Christmas

-Severus

/

December 25, 1992

Dearest, Sweetest, Most Incredible Severus,

Do you really call sending Gilderoy Lockhart flying across a room with a perfectly cast Expelliarmus being more subtle than just punching him in the face?

I can't believe you did that. Or, well, I can absolutely believe you did that, but I can't believe that you were just handed the perfect opportunity to end this man's whole career. Did you really volunteer to be his 'assistant' (oh my god his ASSISTANT!)? And he just accepted? Is he an idiot? He can't have just completely forgotten about what happened. Did he think he was going to be able to best you instead? Holy shit, he's a fucking moron!

This is, by far, the best Christmas gift I've ever received in my life. If I can figure out how to get your memory back in that bottle, I'll cherish this just a much, if not more, than the Phoenix Tears. Oh my god, Severus. You're absolutely savage.

Happy Christmas indeed!

~Gwendolyn

/

January 9, 1993

Dear Severus,

Every lunar cycle is the same now. We give the potion to our volunteers for 7 days before the full moon. On the night of the moon, they transform, they snuggle around in their bed sheets for a little while before sleeping the rest of the night, and then after they transform back they're only a little lethargic for a few days before they're feeling better again. I think I can safely say at this point that this potion has been perfected, at least by Belby's standards. I think he's looking to start drafting the patent papers soon.

But something has been bothering me, and it's not just because we haven't found a cure. This potion is expensive. I can't tell you the ingredients yet, but I think you can guess what a few of them are (typical werewolf repellents). If it were a one and done cure, the cost would be of no concern. But to make enough to last for seven days, every single month? Most werewolves don't even have jobs, much less the financial stability to be able to afford to make 84 doses of this potion a year.

I brought this up to Belby and the others… and I was laughed at again. Severus, it's like they don't care. We've been working with these werewolves for years, and Belby and Mali and Young don't even care that they're never going to be able to afford to even make this potion that they helped us perfect. I don't know what the solution to this problem is. I thought perhaps some sort of legislation that would end the discrimination that allows employers to reject someone based on their status as a werewolf. Or maybe subsidizing hospitals to offer completed potions at a lower rate. No one took me seriously. What was the point of inventing this fucking potion if werewolves aren't even going to be able to utilize it?

I get the sinking suspicion that Belby is a Slytherin. Can you confirm that?

-Gwen

P.S. God. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, Severus.

/

January 11, 1993

Dear Gwendolyn,

Not the birthday card I was expecting to receive, but I'll take what I can get.

Joking aside, I understand your concern. I'll be interested to see the patent once it's released. If the ingredients are what I think they are, you're right; this potion will be quite expensive to brew. I'm not sure of a solution either, though both of your ideas have merit, if you can get the Ministry to agree with them. I'm a little appalled by how unprofessional Belby and his colleagues are being towards you. Did something happen?

As it turns out, your suspicion is valid. Belby is indeed a Slytherin. I'm sure you're recalling back to when I said a Slytherin would be eager to make advancements in potions for the notoriety, while a Hufflepuff would do it to help people. I don't know if that's the reason why Belby isn't taking your suggestions into consideration. Perhaps he has done this for the fame and recognition. But Gwendolyn, that does not diminish the importance of the work you've done.

Remember what I said; the development of this potion alone could be what it takes to shift public perception. You're not the only one in the wizarding world who cares deeply about the rights of creatures and wizards alike. That bleeding Hufflepuff heart of yours is an asset, not a hindrance. And frankly you wouldn't be you without it. Use it to your advantage.

-Severus

/

March 9, 1993

Dear Severus,

Last night was our last full moon. Belby is submitting the patent at the end of the week. When our volunteers recover from their transformation, they'll all be heading home for the last time. They seem happy with the work we've done. I hope you're right about the public eye shifting their perspective after this potion goes public; I want nothing but the best for them. All of them. They don't deserve to be pariahs because of something they can't control. But at least now, they might be able to get some control over it.

When the volunteers go, we're supposed to leave the castle as well. But I think I'm going to stay in Albania a little while longer. I'm not sure how long, but I just feel like my business is unfinished here, somehow. Maybe I'll just sight-see or something. Visit the muggle side of town. I've been here for almost three years and never left the magic district.

I hope I've done the right thing. I hope that this was all worth it, and I can maybe help more in the future.

I'll be in touch.

~Gwendolyn

/

May 6, 1993

Dear Gwendolyn,

I've just received a copy of the patent for the Wolfsbane Potion. I have to say, this formula is absolutely ingenious. I can see that you made some significant contributions, because frankly, this potion has my fingerprints all over it. I'd be interested to see what this potion formula looked like before you showed up. It's utterly brilliant.

Will you be returning to London to receive your Order of Merlin? Can I get an invitation to the proceedings? I'd like to congratulate you in person. Just telling you that I'm proud of you on paper doesn't seem sincere enough.

-Severus

/

May 21, 1993

Severus,

I'm not getting an Order of Merlin.

Belby didn't even include me in a footnote on the patent.

He paid me in cash, so I have no proof that I even worked on the potion.

I don't know what I'm going to do any more.

Gwen


	14. Chapter 14 - The Ghoul Next Door

Your name is Gwendolyn Goode. You've been out Hogwarts for a grand total of three years, and you are already entirely disenchanted with the wizarding world. Of course, it was all terribly captivating at first; landing what you thought would be your dream job, moving to a beautiful foreign country, expanding your horizons. But much to your dismay, it slowly became clear what complete and utter garbage wizards were turning out to be.

You arrived back in London a week ago, and since your return, you've mostly been moping around like a sad sack of shit. You'd gone back home to your mom's apartment. Back to the room you'd slept in for most of your life, and the neighborhood you'd grown up in. On one hand, it felt good to be home with your mom, back on familiar territory. Vivian had had greeted you with open arms, and you'd cried into her shoulder for _hours_, almost from the second you stepped in through the door. But on the other hand, you felt more like a child than you ever had in your life.

Your bedroom hadn't been touched while you were away. It was like stepping into a time capsule, with your innocence preserved in purple tie-dyed bed sheets, wooden beaded curtains hanging from your closet door, and a pile of stuffed animals stacked on the floor at the foot of your bed. Your youthful passions were unspoiled in the David Bowie posters still pinned to the walls, in the collection of little mushroom statuettes and figurines tucked between the books on your shelves, and in the little garden box that hung from your window sill, overflowing with out-of-control chive flowers.

Now, littered among all of your childhood relics were some new additions from Albania. A hand knit woolen blanket you'd purchased at a muggle bazaar during the tail end of your stay was draped across the foot of your bed. A bottle of Skenderbeu cognac, a local liquor you'd grown quite fond of, was sitting half empty on the nightstand beside your bed. And the memory board that hung over your writing desk was now full of photos. Moving photos, taken with a magic camera you'd bought yourself with your first salary pay. (_The salary that had been magically direct deposited into your fledgling Gringotts account in the form of cash, so that it couldn't be traced back to the depositor._) There were some landscapes, pictures of the Mediterranean gently lapping against sugar sanded beaches, and close-ups of local flora gently swaying in the breeze. But most of the photos were of a woman. A handsome woman, with short chocolate colored hair that was already flecked with grey, and dark olive skin that was riddled with waxy scars. But despite these scars, Desma Lampros was always smiling, her nose scrunching up as she winked at you through the photos.

You sighed and rolled over in your bed, facing away from the picture board. Despite the sun beating down through your window, your mind was on the full moon that was creeping up. Only five more days. You'd become so attuned to the cycles of the moon that you didn't even need to reference your star charts any more. Had Desma figured out how to brew the potion herself yet? You'd been making it for her for the last two months, trying to teach her as a token of appreciation for being allowed to stay in her home after the project ended. Not that keeping you around was any sort of burden; you'd been sharing a bed with her for over a year, after all.

Your relationship with Desma had been easy and casual, but neither of you had ever intended for it to persist after you returned to England. (_Because it was horribly unprofessional to sleep with Miss Grey, you fucking idiot. Had Belby found out what happened behind your closed door? Is that why he decided to ruin your life?_) Desma was down to earth like that, and you appreciated her candor on the matter. Still, you worried for her. And laying in this narrow twin size bed alone, you missed her terribly, too.

You missed Albania. You missed the salt air and the open ocean, waking up to warm sunlight and blue waters. You missed the Rathskeller bar and eating fresh seafood and shëndetli every other night. (_You missed feeling like you were actually doing something with your fucking life._)

In the short time since returning home, your days had started blending together. You'd wake up, you'd lay in bed thinking too hard for a few hours, before having breakfast with your mother. You might run some errands, go to the shops, help around the house. Vivian would go to work in the evenings, and you'd be left in the apartment alone, where you would blast classical records and sit on your bedroom floor drinking cognac. You would flip through your research notes, trying to figure out where the cure was hidden. Then you would read and re-read the patent that didn't acknowledge you in any line of its text. And finally, you would pour over every single note and letter you'd received from Severus Snape in the last three years, staining their pages with your tears. Sometimes you would take out the little bottle of his memory and pour yourself into that instead, letting it loop over and over as you watched the scene from every possible vantage point. Because it was calming, to be grounded by his voice again. But it wasn't the real thing.

You closed your eyes tightly and wrapped your hands around the pendant that hung from your neck. The Phoenix Tears had never left your throat for the entirety of your stay in Albania, and they remained there now. Desma had commented on it back when you first started sleeping together, idly twirling the small bottle between her bandaged fingers as she pillowed her head against your small breasts. She teased you because it was the only thing you left on when you were together, but she seemed to understand that it was from someone special to you. She never held that against you either, and you loved her for that. Because even as you made love to her, just as you had done with Lawrence Hollingsworth in the weeks following your graduation, neither of them quite touched your heart.

Ugh… Lawrence. He'd written you twice since your return to London, but you couldn't bring yourself to write him back. You were pleased to read that he was doing well in the Auror training corps, and he seemed genuinely concerned for you, but he just wasn't who you wanted to see right now. The last time you'd seen him had been about two weeks before you left for Albania, on the night you'd mutually decided to lose your virginities to one another. It had been awkward, because of course it was awkward, but you'd both been eager to get that hurdle out of the way before moving along with your lives. Despite your tumultuous relationship in school, he'd become a close friend, someone you trusted, so it felt perfectly natural at the time. He'd been so sweet and gentle with you too, and you certainly didn't regret it. But you didn't want him to get the wrong idea if you agreed to see him again now. He wasn't who you wanted to see… because you didn't want to see _anyone_. Even if you had the opportunity, you didn't think you could face Severus right now either.

Because you really _were_ an idiot. A foolish, bright eyed idiot, who just blindly trusted people, and allowed them to walk all over you, because you were wired to see the best in the worst sorts of people, apparently. You let Belby use you for three fucking years. You worked your goddamn hardest, poured your mind and body into perfecting his potion for him, and you didn't even have the ovaries to call him out when he talked down to you like you were a naïve widdle huffie-puffie. Like you were some bubbleheaded intern instead of an honest to god Potions Master just like he was.

Though… maybe you _were_ naïve. Just look where your trusting nature had gotten you. You'd been taken advantage of by not just one, but _two_ famous, respected, well-to-do wizards. You'd just sat there and let them steal what they wanted from you, because you were too immature to recognize when a handsome man was playing you like a fiddle.

Then again… at least _one_ of them had ended up in Saint Mungo's with severe memory loss. At least _one_ of them had gotten what he deserved.

No… that wasn't right. You couldn't allow your heart to grow hard over this. Severus had called your bleeding heart an asset, not a hindrance. He said it's what made you who you were. You had the sudden impulse to roll off of your bed and dig through the box of his letters to find that one, to scan your eyes over the words you had memorized since the day you'd received them. But that would require effort. And you weren't in the mood for exerting any of that right now. And it would only serve to remind you that you hadn't written to Severus since you'd been back to London either. That made you feel guiltier than ignoring Lawrence ever could.

Failed career. Failed relationships. Failed self-preservation. All of your teenage and childhood fears were rearing their ugly heads again. You really weren't cut out for anything. You couldn't venture back into the muggle world; you had no education that would be worth anything to anyone. And all the wizarding world had done was betray you. Even if you took an entry level job at an apothecary, who was to say that you wouldn't get fucked right over out of that job too? It wasn't even that you wanted the _recognition_ for the work you'd done on the Wolfsbane Potion. You'd never been interested in that.

But you'd been promised something else, and absolutely no one had delivered. Slughorn had promised you a future. Belby had promised you a cure. You'd gone into this thinking you were being given the opportunity to really, truly help some of the most disadvantaged people on the planet. Instead, all of your passion and hard work had just helped Belby. You may as well have pinned the Order of Merlin to his chest yourself. Should have just handed him a front page spread in the Prophet lauding him as a hero. You'd helped him gain his fame and notoriety. Meanwhile, you were quite certain there wasn't a single werewolf in England who could afford to brew Wolfsbane Potion this month.

You heard rattling from the kitchen. Mum was up, so that had to make it about… 11? You sighed as you stared at the wall, rubbing your fingers absently over the pendant in your hands. There was nothing you could do about any of this, for now. That's what your mother would tell you. Your brain had been churning with the same circular thoughts for weeks, and try as you might to use your logic, to clear your mind, to return to the present moment… the present moment fucking _sucked_ and you didn't want to be in it either.

You felt like you should be doing _something_. But all of your plans for convincing the Ministry to help put Wolfsbane Potion into the hands of as many werewolves as possible, sort of hinged on the fact that you had worked on the potion in the first place. And you didn't have any proof of that. Your research notes were all handwritten, not a single one of them dated. Even your letters to Severus never mentioned the potion directly, because of Belby's insistence of your non-disclosure.

Music came drifting into your room now. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, pressing your face into your pillow with dismay. She wouldn't be playing music if she thought you were asleep. So she knew you were awake. So you should probably get up and go help with breakfast or something but you just… couldn't… even remotely force yourself to do that right now. Even as your brain told your body it was time to get up, not a single nerve ending reacted to the command. In a few minutes she would probably come and knock at your door. She'd crack it open and peek her head in, and ask if you were okay. You didn't want her to do that either. You didn't want to tell her that you weren't okay. That you were thinking again. That you were miserable because you couldn't do anything about anything and you felt like your life was falling apar-

There was a knock. But it wasn't at your door. You turned your head to the side, facing the wall with the pictures again, as if trying to see through it to the front door. Neither of you were expecting visitors, especially not this early ("_early_"). Package maybe? There was another clatter from the kitchen, followed by the music being turned down slightly. You couldn't hear much over the swell Vivaldi's Spring, but you could tell that your mother had answered the front door, and she was speaking to someone. The conversation lasted only a few minutes, before the front door shut again, followed by the shuffling of slippered feet down the hall. Moments later, there was a gentle rap at you own door, and you sat up quickly in your bed.

"Gwen, honey?" came your mother's sleep-scratchy voice. Predictable as ever, she opened the door just enough to peer inside, her chestnut waves piled up on top of her head with a great big clip, and wearing her favorite kimono-style dressing gown. She was the picture of lazy elegance, and it would have been a perfect snapshot of a typical morning in your home, were it not for the apprehensive look gracing her face. That was new, and it made your heart pound wildly. Belby and Lockhart hadn't been the _only_ horrible men in the news lately… Hadn't there been a breakout from Azkaban recently…?

Moving quickly, you scrambled out of bed, immediately reaching for your wand before stepping toward the door. "What is it?" you whispered nervously, grabbing your own plain grey dressing gown from the back of your desk chair and pulling it on over your sleep shorts and tank top. You were just getting ready to summon your shoes when you felt your mothers hand on your shoulder, and your head snapped up to find her smiling ruefully.

"I didn't mean to spook you," she whispered apologetically, rubbing your upper arm to try and soothe away your anxiety. You felt slightly more relieved by this contrition, but you craned your neck to try and see past her just the same. You couldn't determine much through the crack in the door, and she pulled your attention back with a gentle shake of your elbow. "There's someone from Hogwarts here to see you," she explained quietly, and all thoughts of Sirius Black vanished as you felt all of your internal organs plummet to the ground.

"Who?" you asked hoarsely, pulling your dressing gown a little tighter around yourself. You felt like you were on the verge of swooning, caught somewhere between giddy excitement and absolute terror. There was no way… no _fucking_ way-

"He's got a funny name," Vivian whispered again, shrugging apologetically as she looked over her shoulder towards the living room. "I wouldn't get it right if I tried. But he's one of the teachers I met when I-"

You pulled the door open quickly and slipped past her into the hallway. Even with your head swimming and your heart trying to throb its way up your esophagus, you dashed towards the living room fervently, your bare feet thudding on the carpeted floor.

_'I'd like to congratulate you in person.'_

Had he really come to see you? After three years, were you finally going to get to see him again outside of a memory? You'd been fantasizing about this moment for literal months, and while it usually didn't involve you being barefoot in your pajamas with bed-head, you couldn't allow yourself to think too hard about this. Even though you were ashamed of yourself and embarrassed in advance, you just wanted to _see_ him. You could feel terrified tears stinging the back of your eyes as you rounded the corner into your living room.

You had to clutch the back of the tweed couch to keep from just totally keeling over. Placing a hand against your chest, you could feel your pulse racing against your fingertips, could feel the sick feeling creeping up your throat. Your brain hadn't quite caught up with the rest of your body, and you stuttered uncouthly as you croaked, "Puh… Professor Dumbledore?"

Albus Dumbledore stood in the center of your living room, wearing a set of pristine lavender robes and looking thoughtful as he gazed at a collection of framed watercolors hanging above the turntable. Vivaldi was still pouring from the speakers with misplaced joviality, and the whole tableau was nothing short of surreal. Despite his unexpected presence in your childhood home, he also looked surprisingly like he belonged there. The glittering silver stars on his robes and the beads dangling from the ribbon in his beard fit right in among your mother's eclectic décor of antique constellation globes and expansive collection of crystals and taxidermy.

Dumbledore smiled serenely over his half-moon spectacles as he turned his attention to you, before raising a thin, knobby finger towards the art on the wall. "Did you paint these yourself?" he asked pleasantly, indicating the watercolors. "They're quite charming." They were all pictures of the same red and white spotted mushroom you'd made when you were about seven, each with slight variations as you'd tried to get the mushroom perfect, experimenting with color and saturation. You'd done it over and over until you'd gotten it right, but Vivian had framed and hung each and every one anyway. She said she liked seeing the artistic process in action.

"Uhm. Yes, I did. Thank you?" you muttered, unsure of what else to say. It was dawning on you now, the absurdity of the situation. Albus (_freakin'_) Dumbledore was standing in your home, admiring 14 year old art work, and looking for all the world like he'd just popped in for a spot of tea. Beyond the utter confusion, you also felt a wash of shame over just how stupid excited you'd gotten when you thought it had been… _someone else_. And your mother wasn't helping. You could see her out of the corner of your eye, giggling in the hallway with her hand over her mouth. Vile woman. She probably did that on _purpose_. You needed to get a handle on the situation.

Stepping around the couch, you stood before your old Headmaster, drawing his attention away from your ancient paintings once again. "Pardon me, Professor, but… what exactly are you doing here?" you asked bluntly, and were surprised to see the old man's face light up with recollection. Like he'd just remembered why he'd come in the first place.

"Oh, my dear. I'm ever so sorry," Dumbledore laughed genially. "Where are my manners?" He clapped one of those boney hands onto your shoulder. "We have much to discuss! And there's no time like the present." Looking up over the top of your head (_you never realized just how tall Dumbledore really was before now_), he smiled warmly to your mother, who had finally exited the hallway after having managed to compose herself. "Would it be too much trouble to ask for a cup of tea, Miss Goode?"

You jolted slightly at the name, but remembered that yeah, your mum was also Miss Goode. She was smiling lopsidedly, as though simultaneously impressed by this old man's gall, and mildly offended at being called 'Miss Goode'. But your mother wasn't a bartender for nothing, and she quickly slipped back into the role of perfect hostess. "Not at all. And please, it's Vivian." She stepped through the living room on her way to the kitchen, turning down the music even further, until it became pleasant background noise. "Why don't you have a seat, while I make up a tray," she suggested, motioning towards the single tweed armchair that matched the couch.

Dumbledore smiled graciously and nodded his assent. "That would be lovely, Vivian. Thank you very much." Nodding politely as she made her way into the kitchen, she threw you a meaningful look before disappearing behind the beaded curtain that separated the rooms. Using the hand still clasped on to your shoulder, Dumbledore steered you towards the couch, and you sat down obediently as he settled himself into the arm chair. It was comically low to the ground for someone with such long legs, his knees almost coming to his chest as he plopped down into it, but he made absolutely no complaint as he settled comfortably against the cushions. This was _absurd_.

"Professor…" you started to ask, but Dumbledore cut you off, raising a placating hand to beg your silence.

"Yes, yes, my dear. I'll be direct. My reasons for being here are threefold," Dumbledore explained pleasantly, but his words only worried you further. What kind of business could Albus Dumbledore possibly have with you? This was the first time you'd ever really spoken to him one on one. Even when your mother had visited the school after the Lockhart incident, he'd mostly talked to _her_. He appeared quite determined to speak to you now, though.

"Firstly, I'd like to congratulate you on the success of the Wolfsbane Potion," he stated formally, and you felt something catch in your chest. You'd… honestly never heard those words, from anyone. Not anyone within the magical community, anyway. Because no one _knew_. So how… "Professor Snape told me you worked extremely hard on it," he continued, as if reading your mind with no more than a passing glance. "And I'm sorry to hear that Damocles Belby let his greed get the better of him."

You sat in dumbfounded silence for several moments, your arms wrapping themselves tightly around your stomach in an attempt to hold yourself together. So he knew because of Severus… You always suspected that he kept Dumbledore abreast of your talent while you were in school; it's how you'd caught the eye of Horace Slughorn after all. But he… continued to talk about you? Even now that you were gone? You felt your face warming up despite your best efforts, but you offered Dumbledore a small, but genuine smile of gratitude. "Thank you, sir," you answered quietly, and he smiled warmly in reply.

"Of course, my dear. Now!" Dumbledore raised a finger, as if marking off an invisible check list. "This leads quite naturally into my second reason for coming." He leaned forward now, his smile falling slightly with the gravity of his next words. "As I'm sure you well know, we've recently lost our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to a rather unfortunate accident involving a backfired memory charm." You winced slightly, but nodded. The truth of Gilderoy Lockhart's fraudulence and his subsequent amnesia was still making headline news as more details of his deception emerged. You were indeed well informed of the situation, and Dumbledore did you both a favor by not resuming any further on that particular train of thought.

"I have a new professor lined up to take the position," Dumbledore explained, and the sudden sharp and serious look that hardened his features had you sitting up a little straighter. "However, what I am about to tell you is extremely sensitive information, Miss Goode, so I'd rather it not leave this room." Your mouth fell open slightly, but your nodded immediately. It wasn't like you had anyone to be telling secrets to anyway. Dumbledore nodded his ascent before explaining, "This new professor happens to be a werewolf."

You started slightly, your body twitching at this revelation. On one hand, it shocked you that Dumbledore would be willing to hire someone with one of the most dangerous and stigmatized conditions in the wizarding world to teach children. But on the other hand… it also didn't shock you at all. You always got the impression that Dumbledore was the sort of man who took care of strays.

"I have no doubt he will be an excellent man for the job," Dumbledore continued after allowing you a few moments to process. "However, his employment hinges on him being able to control his lycanthropy during the full moon." Ah. Now everything was coming together. You nodded slowly with your perceived understanding, and Dumbledore finally allowed a touch of a smile to reach his eyes again. "What I need to know from you, is if this potion will render a werewolf harmless enough to be considered safe to live among the student body of Hogwarts. Professor Snape tells me he has no doubt about the potion's effectiveness, but I'd really like to hear it directly from someone who's seen its effects in person, and who has worked with werewolves first hand."

The mention of Professor Snape and his confidence in your potion had your face warming up again, but you nodded more enthusiastically as you considered his words. "Absolutely, sir," you began, but you were both momentarily distracted as your mother re-entered the room from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a rustic looking brown tea pot, handmade earthen Japanese style cups, and a plate of crescent cakes. She placed the tray on the side table nestled between the couch and arm chair, before nodding to Dumbledore and winking at you with her lopsided smile before retreating to the kitchen with a rattle of beaded curtains. There were only two cups on the tray.

"The… Wolfsbane Potion is designed to give a werewolf complete control of their mental faculties," you continued to explain, taking it upon yourself to pour tea into both cups. Dumbledore held up a hand to tell you when to stop, and you slid over the small carafe of milk, as well as the honey jar. "A transformed werewolf under the effects of the Wolfsbane Potion has all the same control over themselves as an Animagus." You hoped this would be a useful comparison, because in truth, you weren't actually sure of how much control that actually was, as you weren't an Animagus yourself. But you knew Professor McGonagall was, and you'd never seen her dashing off through hallways chasing rats.

You picked up your mug, warming your fingers against it instead of actually drinking from it. "I'm not going to tell you that it renders a werewolf completely harmless. Their bite still has the potential to turn someone, even if it's accidental. But if he takes the potion exactly as instructed, and he stays isolated during his transformation, I'm talking locked doors and _protego_ charms and security wards and everything, so that no one can get in, and he cannot get out until morning… I…" You hesitated, staring down into the greyish liquid cooling in your cup. It didn't feel like your place to be saying all of this. You couldn't be held responsible if something did go horribly wrong. But you believed in the work you had done. You lifted your head and looked Dumbledore in the eyes with a fierce sense of determination. "I feel reasonably comfortable telling you that he wouldn't be a danger to your staff or your students."

Dumbledore was idly stirring his tea with a small spoon as he considered you. But you could see his eyes twinkling, see that hint of a smile deepening the wrinkles around his eyes. And you smiled back. You had a feeling you'd said exactly what he'd wanted to hear, and it filled you with something like pride. "Thank you, sir, for giving a werewolf a chance, and treating him like a normal human being," you said suddenly, overwhelmed by this man's generosity. You remembered Desma, how she'd been living off of her meager savings since she'd been turned, unable to find any gainful employment, except to allow herself to become a test subject for an experimental potion. You wanted so much more for her. And if someone as influential as Albus Dumbledore was willing to take a chance on employing a werewolf, maybe the public eye was shifting yet. "The whole reason I wanted to work on this potion was to help people, like your Defense Professor… I'm finally starting to feel like I might have actually managed to do that."

Dumbledore's smile finally reached his lips now, a pleased look settling into the lines of his face as he sipped from his cup. "I believe you certainly have done so, Miss Goode. Your motivations have always been quite admirable, and once again I commend you for your efforts." Placing his cup back onto the tray, he took up one of the crescent cakes and dipped the tip of it into his tea before taking a bite. His silver eyelashes fluttered, and you couldn't help but smile. That was the best reaction to have to crescent cakes. "Perhaps it's not such a shame that things did not work out with Belby. The man was a fool to turn away such a kind and courageous Hufflepuff." Your brows pressed together at the odd sort of compliment you'd just received, but you managed to keep your smile intact as the man polished off the small biscuit. It was still a compliment, after all. Brushing a few crumbs from his beard, Dumbledore leveled you with his piercing blue gaze. And smirked. "I, however, am not such a fool. Which is why my third reason for being here, is to offer you a teaching position at Hogwarts."

Your mouth fell open quite completely this time, and you heard a small squeak from the direction of the kitchen. You both glanced over to see the beaded curtains swaying slightly, and Dumbledore smiled indulgently at your mothers eavesdropping. His distraction gave you enough time to try and process this surprise, because frankly, it didn't make any fucking sense. Your heart rate picked up as Dumbledore turned to face you again, and you blurted out the first thing that popped into your head. "Isn't Professor Snape still-"

"Oh! No, no, not Potions, my dear," Dumbledore interrupted you before you could even finish, a chuckle bubbling up from him. "I dare say, I thought you might be a little sick of potions by now. Professor Snape is indeed still the Potions Master at Hogwarts." At this, the old man actually _winked_ at you, and you felt your face burn scarlet. But he didn't expand upon his actions, or even acknowledge them, but simply continued on. "No, you came highly recommended as being a potential candidate for teaching Muggle Studies. Charity Burbage hadn't intended to keep the position for quite this long following Professor Quirrell, so there's an opening."

Your confusion only deepened, and you set your cup back on the tray for fear it might shake out of your hand. Who the hell had recommended you? You weren't even remotely fit for this. Besides the fact that you had no idea how to teach, you'd never even taken the course. Because why would you? You didn't even know what was _taught_ in Muggle Studies. Was it a Sociology class? Anthropology? Or more like history, or science? You were absently cracking your knuckles against your lap, a nervous fidget you'd never worked yourself out of, but stopped immediately upon the first loud pop, startling yourself out of your thoughts. "I'm afraid I don't understand," you finally admitted, looking up sheepishly from your twisting hands. "I… I don't know why you would think I'm qualified to teach at Hogwarts. I never took Muggle Studies and I-"

Dumbledore held up a hand to quiet you, and you obeyed, your eyes never leaving his as he smiled patiently. "I don't believe taking the class is a requirement for being able to teach it, seeing as how you live it. You've had 21 years of experience, correct?" You huffed out a short laugh, smiling warily as you nodded your head. You couldn't argue with that, and Dumbledore certainly didn't want you to. He was tracing his moustache with his long fingers now, considering you with a rather scrutinizing look. "I was also told that you tutored Mr. Lawrence Hollingsworth through his O.W.L.'s and N.E.W.T.'s to great success, seeing as he's well on his way to becoming an Auror now. So I have no doubt of your ability to teach either." You blushed again at that, for several reasons. But you'd never thought of it that way. You… supposed you had taught Lawrence quite a bit. And you'd been teaching Desma for the last few months as well. You never thought you'd had a knack for teaching but…

Dumbledore could clearly see the wheels in your head turning, and the fact that you were even taking the time to think about it seemed to be all he needed. Reaching deep into the pockets of his lavender robes, he extracted what looked like two tiny squares of chocolate. But upon casting an engorgement charm, they turned out to be two rather large books, which he placed on the low coffee table before the couch. "I took it upon myself to bring the lesson plans developed by both Quirinus Quirrell and Charity Burbage for you to look over. You're welcome to adapt and change them as you please, of course. Muggle Studies is a very broad subject, after all." He said all of this with a maddeningly tranquil smile, like he was giving you a choice, but not really, because he knew you had already _made_ your choice. Despite this perceived smugness, he was also looking at you with an incredible amount of fondness and warmth. "I thought this might be a nice change for you, Miss Goode. Leave the whole business with Belby behind, and give you something productive to do in the meantime."

You stared down at the books, trying to absorb all of this. That… was a very kind offer, and you recognized it as such. It _would_ be a nice change of pace. How hard could it be? You wouldn't have to worry about trying to find a job in the potions field any more. Didn't have to settle for a stagnant apothecary job, or allow yourself to be fucked over by another shitty Potions Master with grand ambitions. Maybe you could even do your own research on the side. Hadn't Snape said something like that in your fifth year?

_Snape_…

"Who recommended me?" you asked suddenly, looking up from the books to Dumbledore, who was finishing the last of his tea. Your heart was pounding in your chest as you considered the implications of all of this. You could see him again. You could work with him again. You might… _might even… _

Dumbledore's answer was another wink, accompanied with an enigmatic smile as he hoisted himself out of the low arm chair. You winced as you heard his bones crack and pop, but he otherwise seemed unaffected as he smoothed out his robes. "Term starts on the first of September, as I'm sure you know," he replied cheerfully, completely ignoring your enquiry as he tented his long, thin fingers against his midsection. "If you accept the position, I invite you to arrive to the castle two weeks prior. That will give you some time to settle in and reacquaint yourself with the castle. Do you accept?"

You started, sitting up straight but making no move to stand as well. This was all happening very suddenly, and you felt a little thrill of dread and excitement course through your chest. "Do I have to make the decision right now?" you asked cautiously, and the way his smile persisted didn't soothe you at all.

"Do you really need to think about it, Miss Goode?" he asked simply, before holding one of those pale, boney hands out for you to take.

You stared at it, your head swimming again as you tried to rush through your options. But what options did you have, really? You could stay here and wallow your life away in self-pity before getting a dead end job you were going to hate.

Or you could go back to Hogwarts.

Why _were_ you even thinking about this?

"I suppose I don't," you answered finally, your voice quivering as you accepted his proffered hand. His grip was surprisingly strong as he helped to pull you up out of your seat, and he held your hand lightly as he waited expectantly. "Yes, I accept."

He clasped your hands with both of his, shaking it enthusiastically. "Splendid! Just splendid. Hogwarts will be thrilled to have you back within its halls, I am sure of it." Releasing your hand, he fished around in his robes once again, this time extracting a gold pocket watch. You weren't particularly surprised to find that it had twelve hands, and planets instead of numbers. That… just seemed like a perfectly normal Dumbledore thing to have. "I'll see you on the 17th or thereabouts," he said, before slipping the watch back into his robes. "You're welcome to take the Hogwarts Express if you like, or you may simply Apparate to Hogsmeade. Whichever you find most convenient."

You were doing your own time keeping in your head, and you had an abrupt realization as you considered your early arrival and the start of term. The words spilled out of you before you could stop them. "The new Defense professor… Will he be arriving early too?" you asked, trying not to sound too eager about it. "There will be a full moon the day before term begins. I could possibly-"

"I believe Professor Lupin has opted to work out that transformation in the comfort of his own home," Dumbledore cut in quickly. He was very good at interrupting you. Or perhaps at reading your mind. "He'll be arriving on the first with the rest of the students." You deflated slightly, as you were rather eager to meet this man. Or, at least, eager to meet a werewolf you hadn't been working with for three years. You were a little ashamed to admit that you wanted to know how other werewolves felt about the potion you'd helped to create. But you figured you'd still get to chance to speak with him about it. You'd be coworkers, after all.

Dumbledore's face went rather serious then, and you swallowed thickly with trepidation. "I'm certain I don't need to swear you to secrecy on this matter, Miss Goode. But keep in mind that the only ones who know of Remus Lupin's affliction are myself, the House Heads, and a scant handful of other professors." You frowned slightly, but nodded. You had no intention of revealing anyone's secrets. Especially not one so dire. Dumbledore continued. "No student is to know. And given that parents are already extremely on edge about the recent breakout of Sirius Black, I don't wish to give them any more reason to panic." His face fell in to weariness then, and he lifted a hand to squeeze your shoulder, giving his words emphasis. "Even with your brilliant potion rendering him harmless, I'd rather not risk the exposure, you understand?"

You nodded again. "Of course, sir," you assured him. You'd been working with werewolves long enough. You knew they kept their affliction close to the chest if they could help it. The stigma was suffocating, and none of them deserved it. You quietly promised yourself you would do everything in your power to help this Remus Lupin, if only to soothe your own heart. You had to keep helping them any way you could.

Dumbledore's smile returned, but it looked tired and a little worn. Still, he squeezed your shoulder once more. "Do you have any more questions for me?" he asked patiently, but you immediately shook your head. You didn't wish to hold him up any longer.

"No, I don't think so," you replied, and he slowly slid his hand from your shoulder, patting your arm instead. You laughed, for no other reason than your brain couldn't tell if it wanted to laugh or cry. Laughter always seemed to be the default. "I… Well!" you huffed, rubbing your tired face. "I guess I'll see you on the 17th then." You smiled awkwardly. "Or thereabouts."

But Dumbledore didn't seem to mind your odd outbursts. He simply smiled placidly, before taking up your hand again, shaking it cordially. "It's an honor to have you on my staff, Professor Goode," he assured you, and you laughed again at the change in title. _Professor_ Goode! Had a nice ring to it. You would start reading those lesson plans immediately, you decided. You already felt a weight lift from your back, now that you actually had something to do. Maybe your future wasn't completely in the mud after all.

You squeezed the man's hand in return, this time taking _his_ hand in both of yours. "Thank you very much, Headmaster," you intoned, hoping he could feel the gratitude behind your words. He was giving you a second chance to prove yourself in this miserable wizarding world. You didn't want to disappoint him. And you didn't think you would be disappointed working under him, either.

Patting your hands genially, Dumbledore finally released his grip on yours, taking a step back from you and clasping his hands behind his back. "Please, call me Albus. We're colleagues, now, after all."

You smiled delightedly at that. Belby had insisted upon calling him Professor. Sometimes even _Master_. Albus Dumbledore was already a far cry from that bastard, and for the first time in months, you were actually looking forward to something. "Albus, then."

He gave you one last twinkling smile, before sweeping one last wistful glance over your mushroom paintings. "Well now, I'll be off. Enjoy the rest of your summer, my dear," he suggested merrily. Stepping towards the beaded curtain, he called softly into the kitchen, "Thank you for your hospitality, Vivian." And you had to stifle a giggle as you heard another guilty squeak, before your mother appeared in the door way, just in time to watch Dumbledore reach the front door.

"Any time!" she called back with a wave, and just like that, your apartment was quiet again, but for Vivaldi shifting gently from Summer to Autumn. You stood, staring at the front door with your arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, trying to keep yourself from just completely rattling apart. Your mirth had suddenly dissolved away, and all that was left was an odd sort of coldness. You were getting a fresh start, and you were ecstatic. But it was also terrifying. Starting again was _terrifying_ because you were afraid of getting _hurt_ again.

There was a shift beside you, and suddenly your mother's arms were around you too. You buried your face in her shoulder, and let your warring emotions spill onto her imitation silk dressing gown. She shushed you soothingly, petting her hand over your thick waves as she cooed, "You did so good, 'Lyn. _So_ good. He's right, this is going to be _good_ for you." She gently pushed on your shoulders, and you looked up at her, tears streaming down your freckled cheeks. She smiled apologetically as she wiped them away with the sleeve of her robe, before grasping your cheeks and smooshing them slightly, making them puff out and forcing you to smile against your will. "And you get to go back, baby! Back into the magic world. And back to Hogwarts!" She leaned forward, placing a kiss on your forehead as she released her hold on your face. "You were always so happy when you were there."

And though your tears did not abet, you were still smiling through them. Because she was right. You always _were_ most happy while you were at school. For years you had spent the semesters pining to come back home, to this little apartment with your mother, but the truth was that over time, Hogwarts had started feeling like home too. Because in both places, there was an incredible sense of safety, security, and love.

So you were going home.

Home, to Hogwarts.

Home, to him.


	15. Chapter 15 - Sweet Home

Hogwarts was different, when it was empty. It was never exactly _still_; moving portraits, shifting staircases and shimmering ghosts saw to that, lending a constant buzz of sound and motion to the otherwise deserted halls. But beneath that hum, without the constant chatter and bustle of hundreds of students to drown it out, you could feel the steady undercurrent of ancient magic that permeated the castle. It had been subtle at first, but the longer you spent in the sparsely populated school, the more tremendous it became. It was like getting to gaze upon a masterpiece with no one else in the museum. A special viewing, just for you. And it was humbling to feel its magic thrumming harmoniously against your own, because frankly, you'd been feeling disconnected from your own magic for months.

You had opted to take the Hogwarts Express for this very reason. You could barely trust yourself to properly shrink your own belongings for the trip, much less Apparate yourself across the country. Your wand had been particularly displeased with your malaise as of late; you'd practically watched the shiny maple wood turn dull over time, could almost hear the unicorn hair inside getting split ends. You had finally started getting back in tune with your magic when you began drawing up your lesson plans, but all the same, you were relieved that you weren't going to be teaching a class about actual magic. You weren't sure you'd be up for the task once term began. But you were getting better, now that you felt like you had a passion worth pursuing, and your magic was responding in kind.

It had felt good to retrace your steps back to Hogwarts, if a bit lonely. The deserted Platform 9 ¾, the nearly barren steam engine; it hadn't been your first time encountering these odd anomalies, but it was your first time going it entirely alone. You'd at least been in good company last time. You savored the nostalgia nonetheless, buying cauldron cakes from the trolley witch and watching the verdant countryside roll by. And for the first time in weeks, your nervous energy gave way to a sense of peace, the calming kind that came with the assurance that you were on your way home after a long trip. And that was exactly what it felt like. Going home. It might have been the beginning of a new leg of the journey, but you felt ready for this, if only to have a sense of purpose again.

You'd arrived in Hogsmeade with daylight to spare, and you were greeted _not_ by Rubeus Hagrid (_which you'd rather been looking forward to_), but instead by Argus Filch. Though 'greeted' was perhaps too strong a word. More like the man had sneered at you on sight, muttering under his breath about 'flashy indecency' as he turned away to hobble off of the platform, making you question your fashion choices more than you usually do. You weren't sure exactly what he considered indecent, besides the fact that your shoulders were showing. You were wearing blue jeans, a burgundy sleeveless turtleneck and a pastel ice dyed kimono-style robe. Was it the muggle-ness that made it indecent? You just didn't _feel_ like wearing dress robes; you thought being the Muggle Studies professor would give you a free pass!

There had been chilly silence as you'd followed the curmudgeonly old caretaker down the path towards the castle, but it thawed almost instantly the second you'd decided to ask how Mrs. Norris was doing. It was low hanging fruit in terms of conversation starters, but it did its job to get Filch talking like you were an equal instead of just another delinquent. He actually looked a little abashed over how he'd spoken to you earlier, now that he realized you were clearly a woman of culture, and had thanked you kindly for asking after his dear cat, especially after her bout of petrification last year. You'd never had much trouble with Filch or Mrs. Norris while you were a student (_thank god_), and you'd always thought the cat had the prettiest yellow eyes, so honestly, your interest wasn't even forced.

Your first steps into the empty castle had been surreal. The clack of your boots echoed loudly in the vast and empty Entrance Hall, and as you came to a halt in the center of it, waiting for Filch to shut up the front doors, you were overwhelmed with dueling sensations. It was a potent combination of the reverence one felt when entering a quiet church, combined with the eeriness one might experience when exploring an abandoned building. Like, you knew Hogwarts was haunted because there were ghosts everywhere, but this feeling was haunt_ing_. And for a few moments you'd felt powerless to move. It was then that you'd first become aware of that strange hum on the edge of your perception, feeling those traces of old magic brushing against you own, and it made you shiver. You didn't know if Filch could feel it too, but the man stood close beside you for several long moments, basking in the silence along with you. A silence that would be gone in a scant two weeks. You thought you might understand why the man wasn't so fond of students.

After your quiet reverie, Filch had finally broken the silence by offering to show you to your classroom and quarters, which you eagerly accepted. The classroom was located on the first floor, only a few doors down from the staffroom. It was modestly sized, as Muggle Studies wasn't exactly the most popular extracurricular in the school, but you were absolutely thrilled to find that it actually looked like a perfectly average muggle classroom. There were individual tablet arm school desks in four neat rows, six desks deep, set up before a large black board and flanked by pedestals containing 'muggle artifacts' under glass, such as a telephone, a boombox, and a compact disk (_'Dangerous' by Michael Jackson, you noted_). Just seeing this quaint little classroom made you feel even more excited to actually teach this class. It was like being back in muggle primary school. Except, you know, inside of a castle.

Through a door in the back of the classroom was your personal office, which was considerably less muggle looking by comparison. It was dominated by a heavy wooden desk, much like the ones you'd seen in numerous other teachers' offices when you were a student. The bookshelves lining the walls were mostly bare, though it seemed Charity Burbage had left behind a small selection of muggle novels and children's books. You had a selection of your own to fill up the rest.

There was another door behind your desk which lead to your quarters, and before you entered, Filch decided to take his leave. He gave you some basic instructions, like how to summon a house elf if you required sustenance, or where to find him if you needed any further assistance. You'd thanked him kindly for his hospitality, which actually made the scraggly old man blush. He'd fumblingly asked if you would like to join him for tea tomorrow, so you could visit with Mrs. Norris, of course, and you'd readily accepted, which only made him redden more. You grinned fondly as he hobbled his way out of your office, before turning to the door which lead to your quarters, your new home, and stepping inside.

You weren't sure what you had been expecting. It always seemed like some great secret, what a teachers quarters were like, but really, there wasn't much to them. The room was fairly large, sort of like a studio apartment, the main focal point being the large four poster bed which was draped with breezy sunflower yellow curtains and adorned with wine colored pillows. You didn't know who the interior decorator was, but they clearly had your aesthetic dialed in. One wall was dominated by a large alcove window, with a small dining table and comfortable looking chairs nestled before it. More book shelves lined the other wall, along with two doors, one leading into a small walk in closet, and the other into the en suite bathroom, which contained a large, claw footed tub, and frankly you could not be happier. Oh yes. You could certainly live here.

You had a lot to unpack. Your messenger bag was laden with several trunks which you had shrunk to the size of ring boxes, but honestly, you simply weren't in the mood to deal with them right now. You had two whole weeks to take your time turning this little room in to your home, and there was no reason you had to get started right away. Clothes, books, teaching materials, personal effects. They could all wait, for now. Placing your bag on the table by the window, you only bothered casting an engorgement charm on one of the trunks, the one containing your essentials, like your toothbrush and pajamas. You would unpack it later, but it would be convenient to have it ready to go you when you returned. Because right now, you wanted to explore. Dumbledore had advised you to reacquaint yourself with the castle, and with its powerful magic fluttering against your own, you wanted to do just that, right now.

Why not start with the dungeons, hm?

You were secretly quite pleased that the walk from your first floor classroom to the dungeons was a short one. Navigating the halls and corridors was an easy task; practically nothing had changed since the last time you were here. The painting leading to the kitchens, the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room, the stairs down to the dungeons, the Potion's classroom. All right where you remembered. And your feet carried you there automatically, because who were you kidding? It wasn't exactly the _castle_ you wished to reacquaint yourself with.

How many times had you stood here? Staring at this ancient wooden panel, with roiling anticipation twisting up your guts as you waited for its occupant to come out and retrieve you? It was a familiar anxiety, but you hadn't been waiting just three weeks to see him this time. It had been three _years_. And though you had corresponded regularly… would things be different now? Was he anticipating this reunion as direly as you were? You were no longer a student, an apprentice or a protégée. You were a grown woman now, a colleague, maybe even a friend (_definitely at least that, right?_). But you were also an idiot, and just like when you were a girl, the first thing you expected to receive was a reprimand. But at least a reprimand was still familiar territory.

Alright. You couldn't stand here twining your fingers forever. You stepped forward with determination, raising your fist to rap against the door-

"Professor Snape hasn't arrived yet, Miss Goode."

You yelped. Sonofabitch you actually _squealed_ as you pulled your hand away from the door, twisting around to find Professor McGonagall standing only a few feet away, looking as severe and unamused as ever. Oh dear god. How long had she been standing there? Just how deep were you into your own thoughts that you hadn't even heard her approach? What a brilliant first impression to make on your new boss, who you already suspected had a very low opinion of you to begin with.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as you clutched your fist against it, trying not to collapse like the last time she had caught you _skulking_ outside of a room you didn't belong in. "Aha… Hello, Professor McGonagall," you greeted with a curt nod, your voice quaking just a bit. But the meaning of her words finally sank in, and you deflated, glancing towards the door before looking back to the older woman. "S-So you… you mean he's not… here…" You words trailed off, and even you couldn't hide the bitter edge of disappointment that crept into your voice.

McGonagall didn't even look remotely sympathetic, uncrossing her arms to instead prop one hand on her hip with an exasperated sigh. "I'm afraid not," she explained, and you cringed at your own longing. This second first impression was just getting worse by the moment. "Aside from those of us who live in the castle year round, you're the first to arrive."

Several parts of that sentence stuck stupidly in your brain like chewing gum, and it took what felt like an embarrassingly long time before you managed to ask, "You live here during the summers?" You never considered that there might be teachers who lived in the castle permanently. You knew Hagrid had a house out on the grounds, but to live _inside_ the castle, all summer long? That seemed rather lonely. You had only been inside of the empty castle for less than an hour, and you were already feeling a profound sense of isolation. And the way the castle's magic became so much more pronounced when it was empty, an ever present _something_ on the edge of your awareness… It was a wonder that no one went full on Jack Torrance up in here.

"I do, along with Professor Dumbledore, Professor Trelawney and Madam Hooch," McGonagall explained briskly, rather forthcoming with the information. It made you feel slightly less stupid for asking. "And Mister Filch and Hagrid, of course." Ah, so it wasn't _complete_ isolation. There were other people here. Filch and Hagrid you could understand. Trelawney, too. The woman was practically a hermit, and you had never once seen her outside of her classroom the whole time you'd been taking her class. But Madam Hooch came as a surprise. You always thought she was something of a freelancer, assuming that her only duties were to teach first years how to fly, and to referee Quidditch games. What reason did she have for staying at Hogwarts year round? And Dumbledore… Was he here? Why couldn't _he_ have come to greet you instead of… well.

You nodded your understanding however, before picking at the other thought that had stuck in your mind. "And when um… When do the other professors usually arrive?" you asked tentatively, glancing over to the Potion's classroom door again. You rather hoped she would say 'any minute now'. But of course, when could you ever be so lucky?

"I believe Albus may have been a little over eager, suggesting you arrive a full two weeks early," McGonagall clarified, making you deflate even further. Her tone was lighthearted, but to you, it sounded ominous. She continued, showing off her own impeccable brow arching skills. "Some professors don't even show up until the day of the feast." You physically blanched at that. Really? You had arrived this early, when some professors wouldn't even show up for another _two weeks_? You had already waited so long, would you really have to…?

"But then again," McGonagall interjected, and you snapped yourself out of your tumultuous introspection. "They have a great deal less to set up than a first time teacher might." Ah… Well that was true. You did have an entire life and curriculum to unpack. Getting everything set up how you wanted would take time, two weeks sounding about right. It would give you something to do in this achingly lonely castle. But still… you'd hoped… _really_ hoped…

"Care to join me for tea?"

You blinked stupidly, her sudden shift in topic and demeanor catching you off guard. Tea? With McGonagall? That honestly sounded like a nightmare, given how terribly this interaction was already going. But how could you refuse? What excuse could you give her? What else could you possibly have going on? It wasn't like you had anything better to do… Or anyone else to see.

You suddenly felt exhausted, the length of the day finally catching up to you like a shadow, exacerbated by the knowledge that you wouldn't get to see him today. But you put a smile on your face anyway, tired though it may be. "I'd love to," you accepted, and McGonagall wasted no time nodding her assent before turning on her heel and heading up and out of the dungeons.

You followed her dutifully, trying not to feel too put out at this sudden turn of events. Maybe it was better that he hadn't been there. Your over-eagerness must have been pretty apparent to McGonagall, and that kind of desperation probably wasn't cute. At least this diversion would give you the opportunity to slow your ass down before you went and threw yourself at him like a harlequin romance. Though there was still no guarantee that _wouldn't_ happen…

You hadn't really been paying attention to where you were being lead, but when you found yourself being welcomed into McGonagall's study, it came with the uncomfortable realization that it was almost directly across from your classroom. Outstanding. Exactly what you always wanted.

The office was a lot warmer than you remember it being as a student. More welcoming at least, given the fact that you could only ever remember being in this room once, with a throbbing hand and a Slytherin boy groaning pathetically in one of the maroon wing backed chairs. The chairs were still there, though they were situated in front of a fireplace, instead of standing before the walnut desk. The room was sparse, not much in the ways of personal affects, but one thing you did notice was the burnished gold House Cup, gleaming on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Slytherin had won the House Cup nearly every single year you had attended Hogwarts, but it was only recently that Gryffindor had started making a comeback. Those had been some colorfully worded letters. You wondered who had the _Quidditch_ Cup at the moment…

You jumped with a gasp as the office door clanged shut, and McGonagall didn't even spare you a glance as she strode past you toward her desk, the barest hint of smug satisfaction tugging at her thin lips. She was enjoying this entirely too much, but frankly, you were sort of inclined to just let her. You weren't going to let her intimidate you, but if she felt the need to push your buttons as some form of petty revenge for all of the grief you put her through as a student, you could deal with it. You watched as she snapped her fingers, and a tea tray clattered to her desk at the same time a fire burst to life in the hearth. Taking your cue, you walked cautiously over to the fireplace, slowly taking a seat as you watched McGonagall pour tea into two garnet and gold tea cups.

"How do you take your tea?" McGonagall asked cordially, though the stern lines of her face gave you the impression that this was a very important question. As if your entire relationship with this woman hung on to how you took your bloody tea. And maybe it did. But. You wouldn't be intimidated. Goddamn it.

You shrugged a shoulder and offered another smile, one you hoped was entirely casual and not passive aggressive at all. "I'll… have it however you're having it," you answered, as the truth was you didn't really care how you took your tea. Plain? Cool. Milk? Great! Sugar? Why not. It was one of many types of hot caffeinated brown water that you enjoyed drinking, and it really didn't matter to you one way or another.

McGonagall raised both of her eyebrows, looking you over appraisingly, and there was a tense beat of silence where you feared that had been the wrong answer. But after a moments pause, McGonagall bent over, opening one of her desk drawers and rummaging around for a moment, before straightening up with what was unmistakably a bottle of brandy. Your own eyebrows flew up your forehead, watching in silent awe as she unscrewed the cap, splashing a little bit of the amber spirits into each cup. She then placed the bottle onto the tea tray before using her wand to levitate the whole thing to the small coffee table set between the two chairs.

"I didn't just ask you to join me out of the kindness of my heart," McGonagall stated, voice clipped as she settled herself into the chair opposite yours before taking up a cup. She watched you expectantly for a few moments, before you got the hint and did the same, eyes never leaving hers. "As Deputy Headmistress, I'm obligated to give you the same speech that I gave Severus Snape when _he_ started teaching here at the ripe old age of twenty one." You glanced away at that, cheeks tinting as you peered down into your tea cup, inhaling the heady aroma of black tea and brandy. Ah, was that part of the problem as well? Your age? Did she think you were just as impulsive and irresponsible as you had been as a student? If she was already biased against you-

"And the same speech that Albus Dumbledore gave me when _I_ started teaching here at the same age."

You lifted your head at that, your lips parting in what you hoped wasn't a completely stupid expression of bafflement. McGonagall was sipping her tea, looking as prim and severe as she ever had, her dark hair now steaked with silver, the lines on her face doing nothing to detract from her elegance. And you couldn't help but wonder if she'd been in the same position you were in now. Faced down by a former professor, feeling small and inadequate, wondering if any of this had been a good idea.

But McGonagall's face had softened, ever so slightly, as she settled her cup back onto its saucer on her lap and leaned against the arm of her chair towards you, to make sure her words were clear. "I'm not your teacher anymore," she stated quite plainly. "Nor are you my student. However," she straightened up a little, expression shifting to one of warning. "I _am_ the one who signs your paycheck. So do keep that in mind."

You couldn't keep yourself from smiling at that. It wasn't so much of a threat as just a note of caution, and you nodded your head in understanding. You knew where your position was on the food chain. But at least she was acknowledging that you were technically equals now. You wondered if she would uphold that end of the arrangement over the course of this conversation.

You finally took a sip of your tea, the burn of brandy warming your insides as you leaned back against your seat. "I'm happy to be getting a paycheck at all," you admitted ruefully, the barest hint of bitterness creeping in behind your smile. And McGonagall seemed to pick up on it right away, because her face fell even further, nearing something like pity.

"Indeed," she breathed with a heavy sigh, shaking her head in disappointment which, for once, was not actually directed towards you. "I can guarantee you that you will be living and working in a considerably more… professional setting, than your last place of employment turned out to be." She turned to face you again, genuine remorse gracing her expression as she looked you in the eye. It made your breath catch to be on the receiving end of such a look from a woman you thought didn't care very much for you at all. "I am sorry for what happened with Damocles Belby, Miss Goode. That's no way for a young witch to be treated when entering the world afresh."

Oh… that was… a really nice thing to say. Her words were so sincere, so earnest. McGonagall appeared genuinely repulsed by the actions that had been perpetrated against you, and probably dozens of other women like you, who had been taken advantage of in one way or another by no fault of their own besides ignorance. You felt an unfamiliar swell of affection for this woman, something you were quite sure you'd never felt before.

"Thank you, Professor," you intoned honestly, hoping that your own sincerity was evident in your face. And it appeared to be satisfactory, as the older woman gave a nod of acknowledgment before returning her attention to her tea. You did the same, taking another warming sip.

"Now, I'm sure I've no need to remind you that you are a _professor_ at Hogwarts, and we expect you to act appropriately," McGonagall began, right back to business in terms of… well. Giving you the business. You set down your tea cup, showing that she had your full attention. But you couldn't help but wonder how Severus had felt when he'd received this same talking to. McGonagall's expression was one of great significance as she explained, "You are to watch after your students, respect your colleagues, and though you may be an adult, I would still consider you a very _young_ adult. You are burdened with the freedom to do as you please, but do remember there will always be consequences for your actions, even as a professor." There was a pause where you watched as her eyes raked over your appearance, and she made no effort to hide it either. "Do try to maintain a sense of modesty and decorum?"

Your entire existence prickled at her implication. Goddamn it. You looked away, abashed as you shrugged your robes up over your freckle spotted shoulders from where they had fallen down around your elbows. Alright, so there was a dress code. Fine. Whatever. If both Filch and McGonagall were going to call you out, you would make an effort to abide. But they didn't have to be quite so pretentious. "Yes, ma'am," you assured her, and you really hoped that would be the end of it.

And it appeared that it was, as McGonagall nodded her approval before placing her tea back onto the table. "Now, I have the sneaking suspicion that when Albus hired you, he didn't provide you with any of the pertinent paperwork?" she asked, rising from her seat and making her way over to her desk.

You were a little surprised to hear her speak of the Headmaster with such a resentful tone, but you imagined they'd been working together for such a long time… one became accustomed to the others idiosyncrasies. "He did send me a contract to sign-" you began to explain, but McGonagall waved her hand dismissively, shaking her head.

"That was just your terms of employment," she clarified, searching through yet another one of her desk drawers before coming up with a few slips of parchment and making her way back to you. "What I'm speaking of would be closer to… a code of conduct." She stopped in front of you, holding out one of the parchments, and you took the paper with both hands, internally cringing at the amount of fine print. "For example, favoritism will not be tolerated. That is to say, don't give Hufflepuff, or Slytherin for that matter, more points than you do any other house. We will be watching who is doling out what." You bristled again (_what was she inferring with _that_?_) but nodded readily. It made sense, though you wondered how well enforced it actually was. You had received a rather strongly worded note from Severus when Dumbledore had handed out a resounding 170 points to Gryffindor at the last minute in '92, causing Slytherin to lose the house cup for the first time in six years.

McGonagall had settled back into her chair, leaning against her arm rest to get your attention back from the paper in your hands. "Speaking of house points, you were a student here once. I trust you to use proper judgement on what deserves praise, and what deserves _punishment_." You winced. She was doing it again. That whole 'reminding you of how much she disapproved of you and your actions as a student' thing. But you kept your mouth shut as she continued, with a touch less severity in her voice, "Though if you're unsure, report the particular student to their Head of House to assess the situation."

You sighed through your nose, grateful for the return of her businesslike tone, as well as the assurance that you could pass off that responsibility should you ever feel the need. You looked back down to the paper, the Code of Conduct as she'd called it, skimming over the many little blocks of text that were staring back at you. "Yes, ma'am," you agreed again somberly, hoping that your dedication was evident.

"Take your time looking over that," McGonagall gestured towards the paper in your hands, pointing down towards the empty line on the bottom. "Sign it and return it to me before term starts. I know it's a lot of bureaucracy, but its standard procedure here." A tight smile returned to your face. At least she was willing to acknowledge that this seemed a little excessive. But on the other hand, you had every intention of reading the entire paper before handing it back in. You honestly didn't _want_ to fuck all of this up.

"Now, did Albus already send you your class schedule?" McGonagall asked, looking over the other sheet of parchment in her hands, and you glanced at it at well, seeing that it was nearly an exact copy of what you already had. You were happy not to have to throw Dumbledore under the bus this time.

"Yes he did," you confirmed cheerfully. "I've got my lesson plans and curriculum ready to go." You were quite proud of it, really, and you hoped that your preparedness might give McGonagall a little extra confidence in you. You had planned out five different programs for the course, one for each of the five different years of students you would be teaching. You also hoped that it would be comprehensive enough for the students who had already started the class with Burbage or Quirrell to be able to continue comfortably, and that there wouldn't be much overlap in curriculums.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at your apparent pride in yourself, and allowed herself the faintest smile at it. "Good," she said curtly, and goddamn it almost sounded like praise to you. You thought that was worth a gold star. But then she tossed you a curve ball. "How about your rounds schedule?"

You blinked, perhaps quite stupidly as your confidence fell away. "My…?"

But McGonagall was rolling her eyes before you could say any more. "For Merlin's sake, Albus…" She huffed, shuffling through some of the parchment in her hands, before coming up with a paper containing a large chart. "Obviously, aside from just being a teacher, you have other duties as well, specifically in the vein of keeping Hogwarts and its students safe." She handed you the parchment, and you looked it over carefully in the light from the fire. The chart was actually more of a calendar, with each column being a month of the school year, and the rows under it containing important dates for each month. Quidditch matches, staff meetings, school holidays. It was personally tailored to you, to include your exam schedule, as well as a ridged regimen of when you were supposed to walk rounds. And you couldn't help but notice that the chart also contained the dates for the full moon.

"You've got rounds duty on the first floor and the dungeons every Tuesday and Thursday, from ten o'clock to midnight, as well as every other weekend. You were a Hufflepuff, so we simply assumed you were well acquainted with the lower levels of the castle." McGonagall was all business again, and you nodded along silently as she described your duties. This however, was followed by a heavy silence that forced you to lift your head, where you found a look of gravest import on her face. "These rounds are particularly imperative right now, given the current… climate surrounding the school. I assume you're abreast of the Sirius Black situation?"

Oh. You actually shivered a little, remembering that gaunt, sunken face on the television, and then again as it laughed and raged in the Prophet. You never considered yourself an easily frightened person; you'd been watching horror movies, perhaps ill-advisedly, since you were five. But it was much different when the killer was a real honest to god threat that could also do magic.

"Just what they've been reporting, both in the magical and muggle news," you replied. "That he's a dangerous convict who escaped from Azkaban." That was awfully redundant to say, since it seemed that everyone knew at least that much. However, you felt like McGonagall knew more than the collective 'everyone'. And that was kind of scary. "Is… Is there reason to think he may be coming here?"

McGonagall's face fell, her turn to sigh heavily though her nose. "Albus seems to think so, as does the Ministry of Magic," she began, reaching not for the tea pot, but for the bottle of brandy, unscrewing the lid and topping off both of your cups. "While Hogwarts is one of the safest and most secure places on the planet… so is Azkaban prison. If he could break out of there, there is sufficient evidence to suggest he could break in to here. And though no one has shared this evidence with _me_, I do have my suspicions." Disregarding all pretense of sophistication, she took a very long, thoughtful nip from her cup, and you were actually sort of impressed.

Gasping from the burn, she pressed on, clearly needing the alcohol to strengthen her resolve for her next revelation. "Because of all this, the Ministry has been kind enough to send us a battalion of Dementors to guard the castle walls." Oh. Jesus Christ. You could understand now, why she was so keen to throw back the brandy. You lifted your own cup and took a heavy swig. "Albus isn't happy about it, and neither am I. But there isn't much he can do at this point." Swirling around the dregs of her cup, she nodded towards the schedule in your hand. "There will be a strict curfew in effect when term begins, for students and teachers alike. Be back on the grounds before midnight, or you may find yourself locked out of the castle entirely."

With Dementors posted around the castle, you didn't feel terribly inclined to be leaving the grounds anyway. Swallowing back the entirety of your own cup, you set down the porcelain with a wince before nodding gravely. "I don't think that will be an issue," you admitted, folding up both your calendar and the code of conduct and slipping them into the pocket of your robe. You shuddered again just thinking about possibly having to face one of those… things. You didn't know much about them if you were being honest, but you knew _enough_. The Prophet had no issue constantly going into detail of the effects of the Azkaban guards.

"And finally… well, this situation is quite unique to you." Glancing up to McGonagall, you found she had drained her cup as well, but was making no move to refill it this time. She had a curious sort of look on her face, a cross between apprehension and uncertainty. If you held your breath any longer you were going to pass out. "Albus of course told you about Remus Lupin, our new Defense professor."

Oh, thank god. You breathed a sigh of relief and nodded. "Yes, he did," you replied, though you were still a bit hesitant yourself, unsure of the reason for McGonagall's own trepidation.

McGonagall nodded, regaining a little more of control over herself at your answer. "The entirety of the staff knows of his condition, now," she explained, and you were honestly quite glad to hear it. Keeping that sort of thing a secret from the staff would have been… irresponsible, honestly. "Albus had to pull a lot of strings and make a lot of promises, but frankly, not everyone is pleased with his decision. You being here is actually what convinced many of them to go along with it."

Your eyebrows almost flew off of your face for how quickly they shot up your forehead. _Excuse you?_ You had been a bargaining chip? That… was actually pretty distressing. Dumbledore had said he'd hired you because you came highly recommended for the position. Was that really the case? Or did he have a different agenda…?

"Professor Snape has been tasked with brewing the potion itself," McGonagall began, leaning forward a little to catch your eye, as they'd drifted away with the sudden influx of self-doubt. "However, Albus has delegated the responsibility of looking after Professor Lupin before, during, and after his transformations, to you. Given that you have such extensive experience, you've been trusted with casting the appropriate charms to keep him isolated, as well as tending to him after he's turned back. Madam Pomphrey will be available to help, of course, but she's limited in her experience with werewolves."

That look of uncertain apprehension had returned to McGonagall's face, as if she were reluctantly delivering some very bad news. And she sort of was. This hadn't exactly been a part of your job description when you'd been hired. It didn't even sound like you were being given a choice in this matter. Once again you found yourself fretting, over whether or not you had been hired based on your own merit, or if you had been brought on purely to assure the hiring of another professor, who taught a much more important subject than your own. The employment of a disenfranchised werewolf hinged on whether or not you complied with these demands.

As if there was ever a chance you _wouldn't_.

"It shouldn't be a problem," you said finally, forcing some confidence back into your voice, perhaps with the aid of some of that liquid courage. "I've been doing this for three years now. The Wolfsbane Potion greatly reduces the vast majority of symptoms and injuries associated with transformation. But as you said, it's important to keep Hogwarts and its students safe." You offered another smile, not one of resignation, but rather one of genuine gratitude. Because you were grateful for this job. And you were grateful that Dumbledore had offered the same opportunity to someone like Remus Lupin. "I'm happy to help in any way I can."

McGonagall was watching you shrewdly now, her face a mask of stony contemplation. There was an uncomfortably long beat of silence, one which left you wondering if you had perhaps said the wrong thing by agreeing to do as you were told. Like maybe she was hoping you would decline, and they'd have to look elsewhere for their Defense professor. As she sharply drew breath to speak, you felt your stomach drop.

"You know, I had my reservations about this whole arrangement," she admitted, and you felt that familiar anxiety squirming up your back. "If taking Lupin on was a good idea… If taking _you_ on was a good idea." That stung, and you must have visibly winced as the older woman arched one of her fine dark brows in response. "I'm just being frank with you, Miss Goode. I don't think it's a secret that I wasn't terribly impressed by you _or_ your antics as a student. However," she cut you off just as you'd opened your mouth to defend yourself. Just when you thought you'd gained some traction with her, she was bringing up your past. But her face had softened slightly, and you held your tongue, and your breath, in anticipation. "I think now, that I may have been a little hard on you, back then. But you've certainly come into your own since you left my classroom. I've no place to judge any headstrong young woman for defending herself in this world."

You snapped your mouth shut with a soft click. You hadn't really been expecting that. Like, at all. You felt that newfound affection for her again, and you couldn't help but smile a little. So maybe you had gained some more even footing with her. It wasn't much, but you would take what you could get, and use it to build a more stable foundation. You'd cultivated friendships with people who had much stronger walls. "Thank you, Professor," you said again, for the second time that night. And you meant it just as sincerely as you had the first time. Gaining any sort of respect from the woman felt like climbing a mountain. It was no small feat.

This time, McGonagall actually offered you a smile back. It was thin, and tight lipped, but it didn't appear forced or disingenuous. She huffed a little, the barest hint of a laugh, as she dropped her head and reached for the brandy bottle one more time. "I suppose you should call me Minerva now. Since we're finally on the same-"

There was a loud _crack_, and for a moment you though that McGonagall had dropped the bottle onto the stone floor. You'd nearly jumped out of your skin, but the other woman was looking indifferently towards the fireplace. You followed her line of sight, and jumped again when you saw a young, flour sack clad house elf standing on the hearth, her body bowed low and her piggy little nose nearly brushing the floor.

"Professor McGonagall, sir! I mean, ma'am!" the house elf squeaked, her voice incredibly high pitched and girlish, even for a house elf. You stifled a giggle at the slip up, hiding your smile behind your hand.

"Yes, Flopsy, what is it," McGonagall sighed, placing the brandy bottle back on to the tea tray. But Flopsy wasn't paying attention. She'd turned her violet eyes up towards you, a light of recognition sparking in them. And you found you recognized her too. She was one of the house elves you'd convinced to allow you to use the kitchens for yourself back when you were a girl. She was raising a small hand to wave at you shyly, and you were about to return the gesture, when McGonagall cut in sternly, "_Flopsy_."

The house elf straightened up like a soldier. You almost thought she was about to salute. "Professor Snape has arrived, ma'am! Just arrived on the grounds! Should be in the Entrance Hall any minute, now, si-ma'am!"

Your heart gave a giant leap in your chest at the squeakily delivered message, and you were quite thankful that Minerva hadn't refilled your cup. Because you were certain you would have dropped it to the floor at that very moment. Oh god, oh _god_.

McGonagall- no, Minerva, had arched a brow in your direction, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Thank you very much, Flopsy," she dismissed the elf, and after Flopsy had finally managed a small wave to you, she disappeared with another crack, leaving the two of you alone in the study once again. You looked over to her, certain there was terror in your eyes as her smirk widened into a smug smile. "I suppose we ought to go and greet him," she suggested, and rose from her chair.

Oh. Okay. So this was happening. Finally happening. Your heart had started a wild staccato against your rib cage as you stood to follow, and you nearly swooned as the effects of the alcohol and your sudden dread rushed over you. You felt lightheaded. You felt like you were going to piss your jeans. You felt like you might completely lose your mind in the short distance from Minerva's office to the Entrance Hall because you were finally going to see him again.

As you followed behind the other woman, there was a sudden flair of hot anger as you remembered her telling you that some professors didn't even show up until the welcoming feast. Had that been another ruse to ruffle your feathers? Because it sure had worked. You tugged your robes back off of your shoulders and let them pool around your elbows in retaliation.

The main doors were just clanging shut as you and Minerva reached the Entrance Hall. You felt your heart give another fierce leap in your chest as you laid eyes on him, on the real him, for the first time in three years. A memory in a scrying bowl was nothing like seeing the real thing, and the rush of love (_god, yes, it was _love) that suddenly consumed you was entirely overwhelming. You held yourself back in the archway as Minerva pressed on, approaching the Potions Master who had just arrived through the doors, and was about to walk up the main staircase before McGonagall's footsteps alerted him that he was not alone.

"Severus. Have a relaxing summer?" Minerva asked cordially, extending a hand out for his. He took it easily, but didn't answer the question. He didn't even speak. He merely arched a brow (_you felt fireworks burst behind your eyes_) in a perfect deadpan. Minerva shrugged her shoulders as she released his hand with an exasperated sigh. "Don't even know why I keep asking you that." She'd taken a step back from him, and it was this movement that drew his attention towards the archway, and towards you. You felt electricity in that coal black gaze, but you also felt trepidation. You were on the verge of fainting, but you had no idea what _he_ was feeling. His face betrayed nothing. A smooth stone mask, as it always had been.

Except for the fact that he wasn't looking away.

"You're rather early," Minerva commented, perhaps a little louder than necessary, but Severus' gaze didn't budge from yours. "Pomona and Filius won't be arriving until tomorrow. Albus isn't even back yet."

It was only at the mention of Dumbledore that Severus managed to pull his eyes away from you. Turning back to Minerva, he looked up towards the staircase he'd been about to head up, before sighing and taking a step away from them. "Cokeworth in summertime isn't exactly idyllic," he explained dully, before glancing towards you again. "I saw no reason to delay my arrival."

Minerva looked over her shoulder at you too, and you finally felt like maybe you could walk again. You toddled your way into the Entrance Hall as Minerva continued on, her voice shifting to a more professional tone. "Well, welcome back all the same. We'll have a staff meeting tomorrow at noon, or once the other House Heads have arrived, I suppose. You're welcome to join us, Professor Goode." You jumped a little as you finally came to a halt beside her, mostly surprised to be addressed in such a way. But she smiled to you, almost kindly, though there was still a gleam of disapproval in her eyes. Was it the shoulders? "Though it will mostly be administrative business."

Time to talk like a human being and not just immediately throw up. _Come on Gwen, you can do this_. "I think I'm having tea with Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris tomorrow afternoon," you managed to say, your voice barely even squeaking at all, though it had gone a bit breathy. You felt like your smile was quivering, like it was trying to pull into a frown, like you were also on the verge of bursting into tears by sheer nerves alone. "But thank you all the same."

Minerva glanced between the two of you, and you dreaded that eyebrow that was creeping up her forehead. "Well then. It's gotten rather late. I think I'll be retiring now. Severus, you didn't happen to see Rolanda out in the Quidditch pitch on your way in, did you?" You blinked at this, as it struck you as rather an odd question. Had Madam Hooch been here the whole time?

"I must confess I hadn't been looking out that way," he apologized, pulling his eyes away from you a second time. They kept drifting back in your direction.

Minerva sighed; whether she was fed up with the both of you, or with Madam Hooch, you weren't quite sure. "Of course you hadn't. Very well then. I'll see the two of you tomorrow. Severus. Gwendolyn." She nodded to you both in turn, before departing for the doors of the Entrance Hall, where you suspected she was going to go and retrieve Madam Hooch from the pitch. That was… interesting. And you smiled a little at the connotations.

You jumped slightly as you saw the large door swing open, and you quickly stepped towards them, calling out, "Thank you for the tea, Minerva!" You weren't sure if she had heard you, or if she was ignoring you, but the doors were clanging shut again. And you were left in the quiet Entrance Hall. With…

"It sounds like you've become a rather popular tea party guest."

You swiveled around to face him, and as was so often the case, you were struck with the dueling desire to laugh and cry at the same time. So of course, you laughed, covering your face with both of your hands as your mirth and joy and fear spilled out of you in gasping giggles. He waited patiently as you managed to get control of yourself, and you were wiping your eyes when you finally felt coherent enough to answer.

"To be fair, Minerva prefers just a little tea in her brandy, while Mr. Filch was in fact very cordial in inviting me." Severus seemed to be fighting back his own smile now, though he did allow the smallest smirk to grace his features. You'd missed that. You'd missed every fucking thing about him. His hair was shorter now, but you knew that from the memory he'd sent you. He might have put on a little weight too, which wasn't at all a bad thing because he'd been rail thin the entire time you'd known him. You thought perhaps that _you_ must have gotten a little taller, as you no longer had to look up quite so high to see his face. Though that could have been the boots you had on. The circles under his eyes might have been a little darker, and the lines in his face might have been a little deeper. But otherwise… he was exactly the same.

You were staring. He was staring back. The Entrance Hall had fallen silent, but for the flicker of the torches, the murmur of the paintings, and of course, that low, baseline hum of magic that was pulsing against you with renewed vigor. After a long beat of just… looking at each other, Severus dropped his gaze away from your face to rest between you, before reaching his hand out towards you. Your breath stuttered as long, delicate fingers brushed against your sternum through the knit shirt you wore, and as you peered down, you saw that he held the bottle of Phoenix Tears that hung around your neck.

You shuddered, your breath coming out in a ragged exhale as you reached up your hands to join his. Sliding your warm palms against his cool skin, you pressed his hand to your chest, hoping he could feel your heart pounding beneath. "I've missed you so much," you whispered, your head bowed, because it was all you could manage without your voice cracking. You didn't want to disrupt the pulse of magic around you. "I have so much I want to tell you… But I'll need considerably more alcohol in my system for that." You laughed bitterly, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye.

You watched as he raised his other hand, felt his palm press against your cheek, his thumb brush away the stray tear. You laughed again, at this near mirror image of how you had left each other, and you disentwined one of your hands as you raised your head, molding your fingers against his wrist as you held his hand against your face. "Do you want to go to the Hog's Head with me? The curfew isn't in effect until term starts, right?" You still felt breathless, more than ever as you looked up into his eyes, and you wondered if he would peek inside. If he wanted to know what you were thinking just as desperately as you wanted to know the same.

He nodded once, you suspected in response to both of your questions, before finally slipping his hands through yours. "Give me… fifteen minutes?" he asked, glancing towards the entrance to the dungeons, and you smiled widely again, wiping your eyes as you nodded.

"I'll be here."


	16. Chapter 16 - Confessions

As much as you obsessed over the full moon, there was something to be said for the new moon as well. For one, it made stargazing so much more enjoyable. Without the bright glare of the moon, the stars flickered radiantly against the epic expanse of night sky above the Scottish Highlands. And though the stars were bright, they weren't necessarily bright enough to light one's way. Which gave you a very good excuse to cling to Severus' arm as you made your way across the grounds towards Hogsmeade, keeping yourself close so as to stay in the circle of light cast by his _Lumos_ charm. Yes, new moons certainly had their perks. It was a lovely night… and you had a lovely view.

You also, admittedly, were the faintest bit tipsy from McGonagall's brandy, so your intentions weren't completely nefarious as you clung to his elbow. You could just imagine your boot heels skidding over the gravel path and you landing painfully on your arse. So really! It was just to keep you steady! To make sure you didn't trip or lose your way. And also maybe to savor that masculine scent of teakwood and clove bud you had missed so desperately.

To your surprise, he was being very accommodating. Indulgent, even. He didn't have to be doing any of this. Didn't have to agree to accompany you to The Hog's Head. Didn't have to humor your whims, which were just poorly concealed excuses to be close to him. But it also felt… natural. Just like your old banter, these casual touches came easily. The gentle press of his hand on the small of your back as he'd lead you down the stairs onto the grounds. The relaxed way you'd looped your arm around his when you made your first stumble on the pebbled path. You were terribly tempted to lean your head against his shoulder, but you weren't sure where the line would be drawn.

_Don't press your luck… _

You could see the Quidditch pitch just beyond the slope of the hill you were presently descending, the great wooden structure looking skeletal and bleak without all of the house banners fluttering from the rafters. It was illuminated by bright white light, casting long geometric shadows across the grass around the stadium, and you could see two dark specks chasing each other between the stands, which only served to make you smile. Is this what Minerva called 'retiring' for the evening? Because even at this distance, it sure looked a lot like flirting.

"So… McGonagall and Hooch?" you asked brazenly, your gaze turned towards the pitch as you watched the spectacle. But your eyes quickly snapped back down to your feet as the steep path suddenly gave way beneath your heels. Your fears nearly came to fruition as you lost your footing, and you clutched even tighter to his arm as Severus attempted to pull you back upright. Stupid. _Stupid_ to keep these shoes on! They'd given you trouble on the way up with Filch, why would darkness and drunkenness somehow make it easier to navigate the terrain? You laughed nervously once you regained your footing, glancing up at Severus' thoroughly unamused face, illuminated by the bright shine of his wand. "Just… kind of an unlikely pair, huh?" you asked breathlessly, feeling dumber by the second.

But Severus merely rolled his eyes before looking towards the pitch as well. That hadn't changed either; he was still letting you get away with being a complete dingus. "Perhaps," he remarked conversationally with a shrug of his shoulder. "It's a recent development. But I think it's been good for both of them. As far as I've gathered, Rolanda has been pining for years, and Minerva is finally recovering from losing her husband eight years ago."

Your mirth drained away instantly, the smile falling off of your face as you trained your eyes onto the ground beneath your feet. You'd forgotten about that. It had happened sometime towards the end of your second year, when Minerva's husband, Elphinstone Urquart, had passed away as the result of a Venomous Tentacula bite. It was a big deal at the time; he had been a high ranking Ministry official, so of course it made the papers, and there had been speculation that McGonagall wouldn't be returning to Hogwarts the following year. She had, of course, but the whole thing had been just a blip on your radar; you only remembered it at all because you'd been curious as to what a Venomous Tentacula even _was_. But such was the thought process of a thirteen year old girl who had never experienced death. You never had any grandparents to lose, no pets to mourn. McGonagall started her vendetta against you mere months after the death of her husband, when you had decided it would be a neat idea to physically assault another student. But it never occurred to you that McGonagall could have had anything else going on in her life that might have contributed to her becoming frustrated with a shitty little delinquent like you.

That… was in the past now. You sighed through your nose as you spared a glance towards the pitch, the two dark shadows having come to a halt, hovering near a set of goal hoops. One had been pining for years, the other recovering from a deep loss. It was dreadfully romantic, wasn't it? You smiled a little, despite yourself. You hoped they were happy. That they made _each other_ happy. That things felt as easy and natural for them as they did for…

Your boots finally came into contact with more solid ground as the gravel path turned into smooth cobblestone. But more jarring than the shift in terrain was the sudden snap of cold that enveloped you the second you crossed the gates off of the grounds. You gasped, actually stopping in your tracks as a deep shiver rattled down your body. Severus halted beside you, and you drew yourself closer to him, practically hugging his arm against your chest in an attempt to draw some warmth. It was the middle of bloody August. It wasn't _cold_ out yet. And it took you a moment to realize that the sensation was not a result of the actual weather. You looked over your shoulder, up at the castle, where dim torchlight flickered in hundreds of windows, glimmering and mysterious like the stars above them. It wasn't a loss of warmth, but a loss of _magic_.

"You get used to it."

The emergence of that deep baritone caused you to gasp again, your hair fanning out behind you as you turned away from the castle to face him. He… was awfully close, you realized, but you were entirely disinclined to release his arm, though you did loosen your grip a bit. The brandy must have been stronger than you thought, because you found yourself incredibly slow on the uptake tonight. "What…?" you asked unconsciously, wincing at the childlike quality of your voice.

"Founder's magic," he explained, tugging on your arm a little to get you moving again, and you followed unquestioningly, still keeping hold of him. "I remember being startled by it too, when I first started teaching. It's not as overwhelming as it was back then, but I still feel it. It gets less intense over time, and almost disappears entirely once the students arrive. More people to share the sensation with. _Nox_." He extinguished his wand as you entered the town proper, streetlamps and storefronts providing more than enough light to illuminate the empty streets.

It was uncanny, how he could pinpoint exactly what you were feeling. There was no way he could have been peeking in at you either; you hadn't even been looking at him. But all the same… it was incredibly relieving to hear. You appreciated the confirmation that it was indeed simply the latent magic of the school itself that you were feeling. _Founder's magic_. No wonder it felt ancient, because clearly it was. The castle you'd stayed at in Albania had _nothing_ like it. It may as well have been built by muggle hands for how magical it had felt there. But it was especially comforting to know that it this old magic affected Severus too, once upon a time. That it wasn't just…. you.

"I was afraid…" you began, but instantly bit down on the thought. You'd wanted to wait until you at least had another drink in your hand, but it was already out, and Severus turned his face towards you with so much concern in his eyes. _God_, that look… You winced guiltily, shifting your eyes back down to your boots because you couldn't bear to look at him while he was looking at you like _that_. "I was afraid, maybe, that I was more sensitive to it. Because my... My own magic has been out of reach lately," you confessed, a wash of shame flooding over you. It was difficult to admit that you had allowed yourself to get this low. And you hadn't even bothered to tell him about it sooner.

"Gwendolyn…"

You couldn't stand it. You couldn't hear him say your name like that (_your real name, your first name, for the first time since you were a girl_) without just completely falling apart. You finally pulled yourself away from him, releasing his arm so you could rub your face with your hands, before dragging your fingers through your hair. "Alcohol. Please," you pleaded, finally looking around to get your bearings, and pleased to find you were already at the mouth of the alleyway that lead to your destination. You turned your face to his piteously, jerking your head towards the darkened street. "Before we get into this."

Severus' eyes flicked from your face, to the guttering torch at the end of the street, and back to you. For a moment, you could feel the scrape of beetles skittering around the inside of your skull, and you immediately looked away, down at the cobbled street. Damn it. That wasn't how you wanted to do this. You knew he was just trying to gauge where you were at. Probably debating if letting you have more alcohol was even a good idea right now. But you could make that decision yourself. "I'll tell you everything. I promise. Just not out here, okay?"

There was a pregnant pause, followed by a heavy sigh, and you jolted slightly as he looped his arm back around yours. "As you wish," he conceded solemnly, toting you along towards the Hog's Head, and you smiled ruefully. You felt like a little kid, finding out that it didn't always feel good when you got your way, but… well, you still got your way, didn't you? You allowed yourself to press against him again, holding his arm close to your chest as you ventured down the darkened side street.

The Hog's Head was exactly as you'd remembered it; dingy, dirty, smelling like sawdust and farm animals. There were only a handful of patrons this evening, occupying the assortment of booths and tables around the pub. Most were alone, though a few were clustered in pairs, leaning over their tankards and speaking in quiet voices. But most satisfying was that not a single person looked up when you entered. You greatly appreciated when people were inclined to mind their own business.

Though, that wasn't exactly true. _One_ person had looked up upon your arrival, and the bartender looked just as pissed off to see Severus enter his establishment tonight as he had the last time you'd been here. You actually felt Severus' muscles stiffen under your hands, and you let out an exasperated sigh of your own. You weren't going to tolerate this staring match longer than you had to. You had shit to get off of your chest and you were going to do it in this dinky little bar goddamn it.

With an air of confidence you weren't sure was appropriate for a woman who could barely cast an engorgement charm earlier this evening, you released Severus' arm and walked purposefully towards the bar. Severus followed behind you, perhaps reluctantly; you wouldn't know since you weren't even paying any attention to him. Your eyes were firmly on the barkeep who looked rather startled by your sudden aggressive approach, and you leaned against the counter, already digging into the pocket of your jeans for your money pouch. "A bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses with ice, please. Don't open the bottle. I'll do it myself."

The barman looked appropriately stunned, bushy brows practically meeting his hairline as his eyes shifted from you to Severus. His expression hardened instantly at your former professor, and he opened his mouth to say something, perhaps to protest, but Severus beat him to it, leaning his elbow against the bar and arching a thick brow. "Well? You heard the woman, Aberforth."

Aberforth, apparently, looked fit to burst at being spoken to in such a way, and you found yourself regretting your own bold moves. This was escalating quickly, and if you didn't find a way to diffuse the situation rapidly, there was going to be trouble. Finally extracting the black velvet pouch from your back pocket, it clanked with heavily with coins as you plopped it onto the counter, the sound turning both men's attention back to you. Aberforth still looked forbidding, but with a final glare at Severus, he turned his back on the both of you, walking to the shelves behind the bar. "Six Galleons."

You sighed with relief as you pulled open the strings on your pouch, fiddling around inside before coming up with the required coins, but the sound of gold plinking onto the counter top startled you. Severus had already placed a neat stack of Galleons onto the countertop, and you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, but it was his turn to completely ignore _you_. With a huff, you plucked three gold coins from his stack, pushing them back over towards him, before replacing them with three of your own. There. Even. This time he did glance at you, brow still arched at your audacity, but you simply stared back smugly, before two dingy looking cocktail glasses were banged onto the counter, a few cubes of ice skidding across the splintered wood. Aberforth swiped up the stack of coins, replacing their spot with a bottle of Ogden's Olde, and Severus rolled his eyes as he reluctantly placed the three extra Galleons back into his pocket before snatching up the glasses.

"I don't want any trouble from you or your girl, Snape," Aberforth growled suddenly, his warning catching you off guard. Severus already had his back turned to the bar, and he lifted one of the empty glasses in passive acknowledgment as he walked towards a circular booth in the far corner of the room. You carefully took up the bottle of whiskey, smiling contritely at the old barman before placing another Galleon onto the counter and following Severus to the booth. _Your girl_? Is that how this looked to people? You glanced around at the other patrons, none of whom were really paying either of you any mind. You rather liked the sound of being _his_ girl though…

Sliding onto the cracked leather seat circling the booth, you realized there was no comfortable way to occupy the table without sitting directly beside him. Surely he'd just picked the round booth because it was in the most secluded area of the bar, with a rather open view of the rest of it. But as you inched next to him on his left side, you allowed yourself to wonder if he was also looking for excuses to be close to you.

After sliding one of the empty glasses across the stained table, Severus then held his hand out to take the bottle from you. You didn't even hesitate, though you did spare a glance over towards the bar, where Aberforth was still eyeing the pair of you suspiciously. "I uhm… I don't drink unless I can watch the drink being prepared, or I just make it myself," you explained reluctantly as you passed the bottle over. "It was easier to just buy the whole bottle instead of having to go back and forth…"

The look on Severus' face caught you off guard, his expression stony and his eyebrow arched incredulously. It wasn't a look of criticism though. It was one of comprehension, of understanding. Like you didn't need to explain yourself to _him_. And you huffed out a short laugh, because _of course_ he understood. He'd _been_ there, after all. You simply nodded to him, and watched carefully as he cracked open the seal on the bottle, twisting off the cap and pouring a measure of fiery red liquid into each glass.

"What shall we toast to?" Severus asked as he placed the bottle back on to the table, not bothering to return the cap. Good. There was absolutely no reason to close up the bottle, because you anticipated draining the whole damn thing before the night was through. Lifting your glass from the table, you gazed into it thoughtfully, watching the swirls of water from the melting ice slowly diluting the liquor. There were certainly many options for a decent toast; reunions, fresh starts, a new school year. But all of those seemed trite at the moment. And none of them were the reason you'd come down to the Hog's Head.

"Damocles Belby is an asshole," you declared finally, lifting your glass up and hoping your deadpan was just as solid as Severus'. But Severus couldn't keep the smirk from twitching at the corner of his lip, and that instantly diffused your ire.

"Cheers," he agreed readily as he clicked his glass against your own. "I'll drink to that." You couldn't help but return his reluctant grin with one of your own, because what else could you possibly do but laugh about it? Things were more or less okay now. The storm has passed, and you were still here, if perhaps a little worse for wear. That didn't mean you weren't going to bitch about it though. You screwed your eyes shut as you braced yourself for the burn of firewhiskey, the first swig tasting like petrol and matches.

"So," you gasped, clunking your glass back down on the table as you felt your insides start to incinerate. "You can go ahead and call me an idiot now. Just… get that out of the way." You were mostly teasing, but… you also sort of weren't. You sure _felt_ like an idiot, and you knew the man beside you did not tolerate fools. You'd been expecting a reprimand almost the moment you had penned your last letter to him, and had actually been rather surprised not to receive an owl back after that. But your brain had rationalized it that he was just too disappointed with you to even deign you with a response. You wouldn't have blamed him. So when you pried one eye open to spare a glance at him now, you were surprised to find him actually _glaring_ at you. You straightened up immediately, muscle memory from when you were a student, and you swallowed hard against the fire coating your throat.

The glare broke away almost instantly, replaced instead with a heavy sigh. "You're not an idiot, Gwendolyn," Severus assured you, his tone heavy. He somehow managed to sound both sympathetic and frustrated at the same time. "_Ignorant_, yes. And perhaps a bit naïve. But not an idiot." He lifted his glass to take a drink, and all you could do was watch on in dismay.

Because that… hadn't been what you were expecting _at all_. You'd been expecting him to readily agree (_he'd called you an idiot so often in the past, you honestly saw it as more of an inside joke than a genuine insult_). You thought he would point out all of the mistakes you'd made, the things you ought to have picked up on, things you should have done better. You wondered if he was lying to you just to make you feel better or something, but that wasn't exactly a very Severus Snape thing to do. And yet the truth seemed so much harder to process. "I should have known …" you began, but trailed off as you were faced with another glare.

"How?" Severus asked cynically, shaking his head in disbelief. "I read over the letters Belby sent you when he offered you the job. Nothing seemed amiss then." You winced a little and looked down into the glass between your hands. He… wasn't wrong. You had given him nearly every piece of correspondence you'd exchanged with Belby when he'd first reached out to you in your seventh year, precisely to make sure things seemed on the up and up. "Not to mention… things are just done _differently_ in the wizarding world than they are in the muggle world. Did you even have a contract?"

You grimaced again, shaking your head. No, you certainly hadn't had any sort of contract. But neither did anyone else! The volunteers, the other members of the research team, _none_ of them had any sort of formal agreement with Belby. But you all had received payment on a regular schedule, were housed and fed and treated respectfully (_for the most part_), so there was no reason to suspect anything malicious might have been at play. As far as you knew, Young and Mali had been fucked over just like you had, with Belby appearing to be the sole man responsible for the potion's development. Though, you couldn't be sure that they hadn't at least been paid off.

Severus tilted his head, lifting one of his hands towards you in a 'well, there you go' sort of gesture, before taking another sip from his drink. "That's not uncommon," he explained earnestly. "Most agreements in the wizarding world are driven by a verbal promise and a handshake. Unless you're making an Unbreakable Vow or dealing directly with the Ministry, almost everything is done on honor system." He huffed out an irritated sigh around another mouthful of firewhiskey, and you remembered you ought to keep drinking your own. It was impressive how he kept a straight face with each sip; you still flinched every time it touched your tongue. "Wizards are unbelievably primitive in that regard. I'm not entirely sure there was anything you could have done differently, aside from not taking the job in the first place." He hit you with an astute look then, his brow arched to punctuate his question. "And _that_ wasn't going to happen, was it?" You wilted a little, but smiled sheepishly as you shook your head. No, that definitely wouldn't have happened.

"Even if you'd had a contract, there's nothing to say that Belby wouldn't have just lied anyway," Severus sighed, plowing ahead. "You were in a different country, doing independent research funded by a private sponsorship. He could have simply claimed your contribution was too insignificant to include you on the patent, and there's not much anyone could have done to refute that." He knocked back the rest of his drink, and reached for the bottle, pouring another measure into his glass, before topping up your own. He seemed rather worked up about this, and it was actually sort of flattering that he was so indignant on your behalf. You thought _you_ were the one who was supposed to be getting things off of their chest. You nodded your thanks and took another sip of your drink; the burn was finally starting to cool, and you were starting to feel the pleasant weight of drunkenness settling into your limbs

Severus finally seemed to have gotten out everything he'd wanted to say, his voice lowering to a much softer tone. "We both know that isn't the case though," he remarked quietly, staring thoughtfully into his glass. "Your name may not be on it, but I could see your work in every single line of that patent. Despite the mess you went though, there's no denying that you made a substantial impact, both on the potion, and on the wizarding world as a whole." He finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, and there was a sincerity there that made your heart pick up speed. "You should be extremely proud of yourself, Gwendolyn. I certainly am."

Well… you'd gotten that reprimand after all, but it had been less caustic than you'd imagined. Mostly because none of his irritation had actually been directed towards you. And it made your heart ache, because he was still fanning the flames of righteous anger on your behalf. He'd always been so unwaveringly on your side, and he still was, after all this time.

"Thank you, Severus," you sighed softly, his name tasting electric in your mouth. That was the first time you'd ever said it aloud to him, and it felt just as exhilarating as the first time you'd written it at the head of a letter. You took another heavy sip from you glass, letting the burn bring you back to the present. "You uh…" you laughed breathily, smiling timidly as you pushed your hair back from your face. "You sound like you've been planning that speech for a while."

Severus snorted, picking up his own glass while leaning both arms against the table. "Lucky you got to hear it now, as opposed to when I'd first gotten your last letter." He glanced over at you, raising his glass to his lips and hiding his smirk behind his whiskey. "It was _considerably_ less refined."

You couldn't help but giggle, but even so, you felt a knot form in your throat. Right. Your last letter. The one he'd never replied to, and the one you'd never followed up on. "I'm sorry for not writing you after I got back" you whispered, unable to make your voice raise any further, for fear of it breaking with unshed tears. The alcohol was not helping you with your rapidly fluctuating emotions, but that wasn't really going to stop you. Your glass not even half empty, you reached across the table any way, plucking up the bottle just to give yourself something to do with your hands. Severus watched with a curiously arched brow as you refilled his cup, and then your own, but he nodded his thanks all the same. "Are you the one who recommended me for Muggle Studies?" you asked abruptly, finding your voice as you set down the rapidly draining bottle, perhaps a little harder than necessary. "Please don't try to tell me it was Professor Sprout again."

Severus huffed into his glass, unable to hide his grin even through a mouthful of firewhiskey. You caught his lie before he could even tell it. But his expression sobered almost instantly after he swallowed, and he looked… almost reluctant. Setting down his glass, he crossed his arms, leaning them against the edge of the table. "I remember how you got, after Lockhart," he explained gravely, and you felt your stomach drop. God you wished you could do something with your hands besides just pick up your glass and drink. "You had made a point to avoid speaking to me back then, so when you stopped writing to me _this_ time…" He sighed, rubbing his forehead with one pale hand. "I feared the same thing might have happened." Head still propped up by his fingers against his temple, he glanced over towards you, and offered a cynical smirk. "I could hardly tolerate your theatrics the last time. I wasn't going to let it happen again without doing _something_ to try and snap you out of it."

You blinked stupidly, hands still wrapped around your glass as your mind reeled from that unbelievably sick burn. "Theatrics!" you squealed, but laugher was already bubbling out of you, because if you didn't laugh, you were going to cry. "You're one to talk!" Tears still split from the corners of your eyes, and you quickly brushed them away with the sleeve of your robe. He was smirking patiently as you worked the tension out of your body with your inappropriate giggling. "How _very_ thoughtful of you," you teased with a wry smile, but it softened into something more genuine as you considered that… it actually _had_ been rather thoughtful.

Sniffling, you rubbed at your eyes one last time before picking up your drink, just holding the cool glass against your sweaty palms. "Thank you, though," you sighed honestly, peering over at him. He was always taking care of you. Even after you had left, while you'd been away, after you'd been gone for so long… All he ever did was take care of you. Gave you Phoenix Tears to protect you, let you vent to him in your letters, sent you a bottle of his own goddamn memory just because he thought it might help you feel better. And then when you'd been at your lowest, when all hope had seemed lost (_theatrics_), he'd extended yet another lifeline in your direction, a job you weren't even sure you deserved. You owed him so much…

You wiped your eyes again, lifting the glass to swallow down your encroaching tears, allowing yourself to pretend the warmth flooding your chest was just firewhiskey. The swell of affection you felt was directly tied to knowing that it had been his direct influence that had gotten you this job. And that was impossibly reassuring, not just because it reaffirmed his affection for _you_, but also because it put one of your fears to bed.

"I _am_ relieved to hear that I was considered for the job because you suggested it," you admitted, leaning back against the cushioned bench behind you. Severus reached for the bottle to refill your glass again, and you set it on the table gratefully. "After talking to McGonagall, I was afraid I was only hired so I could look after Remus Lupin."

There was a beat of silence, then. One that stretched for an uncomfortably long time, as you realized your glass was not being filled. You swallowed hard, feeling like a student again as you lifted your eyes to meet his. You hadn't had to do _that_ in a while. And what you found there made your alcohol heavy veins run cold. The last time you'd seen such a grim look on the man's face, had been when he'd thrown open the curtains on that private booth in the Atticus bar.

"_Pardon_?" he asked quietly, his voice a low and dangerous rumble that made you shiver from the iciness of it.

"Puh…Professor Lup-" you stammered, but were cut off as the firewhiskey bottle thumped against the table, making you jump.

"I know who he _is_."

You were absolutely breathless with dread now, watching his hand tighten on the neck of the bottle. "R-Right," you stuttered, your slow, drunken brain having a difficult time finding the words quickly enough. Severus looked genuinely enraged, and you couldn't figure out _why_. "Well, apparently Dumbledore has assigned me to keep an eye on him during full moons." You at least had the presence of mind to speak softly, glancing about the bar, where the amount of patrons had dwindled slightly. Thank goodness. "I'm supposed to help him during his transformations. Cast the barrier spells, tend to his injuries, things like that." The forbidding look on his face just seemed to get darker as you spoke, to the point that you had to look away from him, staring into your glass and you felt yourself shrink into the bench behind you. "I… I guess some of the other teachers were reluctant to allow Lupin on, so having me around was like… insurance. Since I've got the experience dealing with-"

"Jesus Christ, Albus..."

You watched in dismay as Severus sank his face into his hand, before he seemed to remember he was supposed to be doing something and grabbed up the bottle of firewhiskey once again. He filled his own glass first, before draining the last of the liquor into yours and setting the now empty bottle aside. He then proceeded to knock back nearly half of his portion in one go, and you were starting to get anxious. "Severus… What's the mat-"

"You have been exploited by _enough_ manipulative men," he growled viciously, and you were taken aback by the bitterness in his words. That… _That's_ why he was upset? You felt a little something like relief wash over you, though you still felt on edge from the ire in his voice, watching hopelessly as he dragged his fingers through his inky hair. "I didn't think…" he sighed, some of that fury draining from him, as if admitting defeat. "If I had known that Dumbledore was going to task you with being Lupin's keeper I _never_-"

"Never what?" It was your turn to cut him off, because you had no intention of hearing him finish that sentence. "Never would have suggested I come back?" That stung for some reason, and for a brief moment, your muddled up whiskey brain thought it sounded like betrayal. But the stricken look on his face from your sudden outburst told you otherwise. It wasn't, really… No, in a round-about sort of way, you knew he was just trying to protect you. From Dumbledore. From Lupin, maybe. He'd wanted you to come here, so you could have a fresh start, not so you could be used for someone else's gain again.

You sighed softly, letting your own spike of anger simmer down, before reaching out a hand and wrapping it gently around his forearm. He watched the gesture, and you could feel the muscle tighten under your touch, but it smoothed out almost instantly. "Severus, I'm happy to be here," you assured him quietly, shifting closer to him on the bench as you kept hold of his arm. "I'm… unbelievably grateful, for everything you've ever done for me, but especially for this job. This opportunity." You had to pull your gaze away from his then, because you weren't sure if the buzzing in your brain was from the alcohol, or his piercing black eyes. You'd promised you would tell him…

"I mentioned outside, lately I've just been… so totally out of it. It wasn't just in my head this time; it felt like my magic had completely dried up. It took everything I had just to cast _Reducio_ so I could bring all of my stuff to Hogwarts." You laughed bitterly once more, but you felt a cool hand wrap around your fingers, slightly damp from the chilled glass it had been grasping previously, and it strengthened your resolve to continue. "But it's been getting better, since I got offered the job. It was really bad there for a while, but I'm finally starting to feel normal again. Like I actually have something going for me."

You lifted your eyes to meet his, and it pierced your heart to see that look of concern so plainly on his face. You wondered if alcohol made his expressions more honest. But you offered him a smile anyway, a reassurance that what you were saying was true. "I'm _excited_ to be here… and I can't thank you enough for that. And I don't think…" You swallowed, fearing that was you were about to say was incredibly stupid, but you had to lay it out. "I don't think Dumbledore is… is manipulating me, either. If I'm being perfectly honest, I probably would have _volunteered_ to do it. Tending werewolves is practically old hat for me now, and helping people is a thing I'm still passionate about doing. I'm happy to do it."

The concern in his expression melted away to one that looked dangerously like pity, and you got the feeling that yeah, you were maybe being a little dumb. But he sighed, patting your hand before releasing it, and you slowly let it slip away from his arm. "You're entirely too trusting of people," he chided, staring down into the last of his firewhiskey, as if contemplating whether finishing it, only to be left without any more, was a good idea at this point in the conversation.

You forced a tight smile, but your brow was knit with worry. "Is there a reason I shouldn't trust Dumbledore?" you asked, and your worry only deepened as he rolled his eyes. "You trust him, don't you?"

Severus seemed like he needed to take a considerable about of time to think about that question, and your stomach was starting to roil before he finally sighed. "I do," he admitted, albeit reluctantly.

"And I trust you," you countered, though you weren't sure if it was actually a decent point or not. Severus didn't seem to think that it was.

"Poor decision, that," he muttered, finally deciding to drain the last of his firewhiskey on that note.

You could only smile ruefully, shaking your head as you took a sip from your own glass, not much left in it either. "No, I honestly think it's the only good decision I've ever managed to make."

Silence settled between the both of you, but thankfully, it wasn't an awkward one. Severus was watching the barman closely, who had finally stopped staring daggers at the pair of you once it became apparent you weren't going to cause a scene. And you found yourself staring into the last watered down remains of your drink. It was... peaceful. Contemplative as you recounted your conversation, trying to sort everything out in your drink-addled brain. It was a lot to process, but your body was too concerned with processing alcohol, and much less interested in sorting through your feelings. It didn't matter anyway. As much as you tried to examine the evening as a whole, one thought kept creeping up, over and over again.

You were tired of waiting.

"I guess I ought to address the hippogriff in the room," you proclaimed suddenly, and there was no chance for you to swallow those words back down now. Your heart was suddenly pounding in your throat, blood throbbing in your ears. But you'd finally come to a decision.

Severus pulled his attention away from the bar and presumably his own musings, arching one of those perfect brows, demonstrating one of those perfect deadpans as he turned to face you, his cheek resting in his hand. "And which hippogriff might that be?" he asked dryly, and you offered him a wobbly smile in return.

"How I think I've been in love with you since I was sixteen."

You were met with silence again, and you'd sort of been prepared for that, watching with mounting anxiety as he lifted his face from his palm, placing both hands on the table as he stared back at you. His expression was one of… what was it? You could tell what it _wasn't_. He wasn't angry or upset, which was good, because that had totally been an option. But on the other hand, he didn't look shocked or surprised either, which was what you'd kind of been expecting. Instead he appeared resigned, almost reluctant, and for the first time in a very, very long time, he pulled his eyes away from _yours_.

"Severus…" you asked nervously, swallowing down your apprehension as you reached out your hand again. He didn't tense up this time as you settled it against his upper arm, but he did sigh through his nose as he finally lifted his eyes to meet yours. And what you found was a familiar expression… of so much concern in his coal black eyes. "You… already knew that." It wasn't a question. Just a quiet statement. And one that filled you with a mix of excitement and dread.

"I'm not dense," he asserted, shrugging his arm away from your touch. "Though, I do admit I was in denial." He couldn't maintain eye contact, his gaze shifting, almost nervously, from you, to the table, to just about anywhere else that wasn't directly at _you_. And that put a little more weight on the 'dread' side of the scale. "You, ah… wouldn't be the first student with an ill-advised crush on me, though they are few and far between." You felt the littlest bit of relief at this little self-depreciating jab. Things weren't so dire that he had to stop being sarcastic. "I had always assumed it was just the same sort of infatuation you harbored. But…" he trailed off, his eyes finally fixating on his hands, fingers fidgeting slightly in the increasingly awkward silence.

So you hadn't been the first, and probably not the last. That wasn't all that surprising. He was a tall, dark, mysterious man in black, after all. _But…_ he'd left off with a '_but'_, so that meant something had been different. About you. Specifically. "What," you groaned and cleared your throat as your voice cracked with an embarrassingly high squeak. "What gave me away?"

He seemed to loath to hear you ask that, raising those fidgeting hands to instead rub both of his eyes with his fingers. There was a pause as he seemed to consider the merits of answering truthfully or not. You took the opportunity to try and soothe your parched throat, lifting your glass to your lips to swallow down melted ice and the last of the firewhiskey when he finally answered, "Your sketchbook."

You might have thought he had timed his answer like that on purpose, as you sputtered the last remains of your drink down the front of your shirt at that exact moment. But he hadn't even been looking at you, so it had just been a real honest to god cartoon spit take. As if you needed another reason for your face to start burning scarlet. He was certainly looking at you _now_ though, his elbows propped up on the edge of the table, his hands still raised from where they'd been covering his eyes. He was watching you with puzzled amusement as you clunked down your empty glass, trying to wipe the already settling water stain from your blouse. And decidedly _not_ looking at him as you asked incredulously, "My _what_?"

You were momentarily startled as a handkerchief was suddenly materializing before you, and you glanced over to see that Severus had his wand out again. You took the square of white fabric from where it hovered in the air, and sighed gratefully as you began to dab at your blouse, though you wondered why he didn't just magic the stain away himself. It was his fault anyway.

"The first night we were at The Atticus," he began to explain, setting his wand down on the table. "You'd left your sketchbook out on the bedside table. After I'd gotten back from the bar, I was admittedly a little…" He lifted your glass, rattling the last chips of ice around meaningfully. You nodded your understanding, and he continued, pushing both your glasses and the empty bottle toward the far side of the table. "So when I got into bed I just… picked it up and started flipping through it, not thinking much of it at the time. You're very talented with your botanical illustrations but… that obviously wasn't all that had been in there." Your face had gone _beyond_ scarlet now as your shoulders sank, twisting the damp handkerchief in your hands as you remembered exactly all that had been in that goddamn fucking black velvet sketch book. He offered the smallest of apologetic smiles. "It was all very tasteful though, which I appreciate."

You gazed at him in wonderment before huffing out a disbelieving laugh, covering you burning face with the handkerchief. "You _were_ my muse there for a while," you admitted from behind the swath of cotton, and allowed yourself the momentary privacy to get yourself together. You remembered that night. Vividly. Because you hadn't been asleep when he'd returned to the room. You also remembered falling asleep to the sound of turning pages.

"So… You knew," you said finally, comprehension dawning on you as you dropped your hands from your face, and the handkerchief to the table as you gazed over at him. Gone was his smile, replaced again with that concern, that hesitancy. "That's what you meant. When you said that you _knew_. After…" you swallowed, remembering how he'd looked at you then, just as he was looking at you now. "After Lockhart."

He dropped his gaze again, before nodding his head slowly. "I knew you were under the influence of a shitty love potion," he explained, and your eyebrows perked up at the expletive. Had you ever heard him curse before? "And I knew the things you'd said in the elevator had not been a reflection of your… genuine sentiments, about me." You finally saw some color reach those high pallid cheeks of his. And whether it was from the alcohol, or… something else… you didn't care either way.

Moving closer to him, you slowly reached one of your hands across the table, curling your fingers around his where they rested on the roughened wood. He didn't twitched or pull away, so you gently slipped your thumb under the cuff of his coat sleeve, feeling the smooth skin and delicate bones usually hidden under layers of black fabric. You could feel a soft tremor in those bones, but he was also watching your every move, which was exactly what you'd wanted to see. "Those sentiments are still pretty genuine," you assured him, and tightened your hold on his hand as he dropped his head.

"I can't imagine why," he muttered, and you felt your heart sink.

Oh that… that wasn't what you'd been hoping to hear. You could feel your heart return to its rapid pace in your throat as you lifted your other hand, pushing back a swath of dark hair from his face, smoothing your palm over the ridge of his jaw. He was forced to look at you then, his dark eyes brimming with trepidation. "You don't believe me?" you asked softly, sliding your thumb along the hollow of his cheek. Touching him… it felt electric. Like _magic_. Like how you felt back at Hogwarts. Like you had come _home_. And you wanted him to feel it too.

"No, I… I do," he murmured, his gaze flitting from your eyes, to your lips, and you felt your breath hitch. "You've always been… very sincere."

You didn't hesitate. Closing the distance, you pressed your lips to his, allowing yourself to become overwhelmed by the smell of teakwood, the lingering taste of firewhiskey, the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingers as your cradled his jaw. It was soft, chaste, an innocent first kiss, and yet you could feel the culmination of the years behind it. His shuddering breath was warm against your cheek, and he was still trembling under your touch. It was this tremor that gave you pause, a flicker of fear that this had been the wrong move, that you'd pressed your luck too far. You gasped softly as you made to pull away…

But then his hand was on your waist, keeping your right where you were, and you smiled against his mouth. "Gwen," he managed to breathe, before you inhaled his words, and finally he started to kiss you back. Disentangling your fingers from his hand, you slid them up the length of his arm and down his collar, before stopping to rest over his heart, where it pounded thunderously against your palm. In turn, his freed hand found its way into your hair, cradling the back of your neck as he held you close, yielding his mouth to yours.

You were breathless as he finally drew back, but you kept your forehead pressed to his as your eyes fluttered shut. You didn't want to stop. You wanted to sink into him, to taste his mouth, to run your tongue over his uneven teeth and swallow his moans like nourishment. But your head was swimming, for so very many reasons, and when he lifted a hand to brush your cheek, it took everything you had to open your eyes again.

"It's late… and we need to go back," he muttered against your lips with a heavy sigh, and you frowned slightly. How dare he suggest something as sensible as returning to the castle in the middle of the night? "And we need to talk about this tomorrow. When there isn't half a bottle of firewhiskey between us."

And just like that you were smiling again, dipping your head down to peck a quick kiss against his lips one last time, before your buried your tired face into his shoulder. "Okay," you mumbled into his coat, and you could feel his silent chuckle under your embrace. He shifted, wrapping both of his arms around your shoulders, and you accommodated, mirroring the gesture around his lithe waist. "I don't want to go back though," you whined petulantly, even though you had just agreed to it mere moments ago. You wanted to stay right here, in this empty little bar, where no one was watching, and you didn't need to worry about tomorrow…

"Me neither," he sighed into your hair, and you were at least comforted to know that you weren't the only one.


	17. Chapter 17 - Some Other Time

It was uncanny, really, how often you found yourself in this position. No matter how many times you told yourself that the last time would be _the last time_… You inevitably came back to this familiar place when you were at your lowest. It was weak, pathetic, and honestly, kinda gross. But try as you might to adopt a more conventional coping strategy, nothing could really compare to the cold comfort and inexplicable security of crying on a bathroom floor.

You'd found out the hard way that the window of your new quarters faced the rising sun. You hadn't had the presence of mind to draw the curtains when you'd stumbled back into your room last night. You hadn't had the presence of mind to do much of anything, really, besides kicking off your boots and falling face first into your new bed. You hadn't even made it under the covers before you'd drifted into the sweet oblivion of alcohol induced bliss.

And you _had_ felt blissful… You remembered that much. You remembered tottering out of the Hog's Head, clutching Severus by the arm, unwilling to let him go. You remembered slipping on the gravel path, hopelessly uncoordinated in your inebriation, but he'd held you fast, kept you from falling (_kept you safe_). The castle had been so dim, so quiet when you'd returned. He'd walked you back to your classroom, and you'd attempted to pull him in with you. But he'd stopped you, told you to go to bed, to get some sleep, and reminded you that you would _talk about this tomorrow_… You'd pouted, of course. And he'd surprised you by kissing you. He'd kissed that pout right off of your face, and in the shimmering torchlight of that darkened hallway, you knew you would do anything he asked of you. You hadn't wanted it to end, the soft, chaste press of his lips, over and over until you couldn't breathe any more… Until he'd turned you around and steered you through your classroom door. He didn't follow after, but lingered in the doorway to make sure you made it to your office. The rest was a little bit of a blur, but you'd made it to bed somehow. Even on top of the blankets, you remembered feeling warm, a bone-deep contentment radiating from your very core, like the hum of ancient magic.

That warmth was gone now, though. Like an empty fireplace, last nights flames had been replaced with the cold ashes of dread, grim and foreboding in the stark relief of daylight. Even with the sun blazing through you window, you found no comfort in the break of day. Spots in your eyes, red hot behind your lids, you felt dizzy, sick, disoriented and _scared_.

What had you _done_?

You didn't waste time contemplating whether the sick feeling churning in your guts was from the fear, or the firewhiskey. You had to get out of the sun, get away from the light, be free from the glaring consequences of your actions. You'd stumbled across the brightly lit room, your robes slipping from your arms and onto the floor as you lurched into the darkened bathroom. You weren't sure what your body was demanding of you right at this moment, but you hedged your bets by kneeling down before the toilet. Blessedly, nothing attempted to vacate your body. You did however, cross your arms over the bowl before resting your forehead against them, spitting into the water occasionally as you tried to will away your nausea. Everything hurt. Your stomach, your head, your back, your eyes. Every nerve was agony, and the physical discomfort was a catalyst for the tears that began to fall. It wasn't just your body, though. There was a deep ache in your chest too, a hollow space that was rapidly filling with panic. Quiet sniffles turned into ugly sobs, and you buried your hands in your hair as fell back onto your arse, before crumpling onto the bathroom floor.

Idiot. You stupid fucking _idiot_. What had you been _thinking_? You'd been united for less than a day… fuck, practically less than an _hour_, and you'd gone and thrown yourself at him like some desperate school girl. That's certainly what you felt like right now. A foolish, imprudent school girl who couldn't fucking control herself. Alcohol was no excuse. It had been _years_ since you'd last seen him. Years of letters, years apart, years transitioning from being his student to maybe possibly being his friend. And the first fucking thing you'd done upon seeing him again was tell him that you _loved_ him? God, you were _pathetic_. Who the fuck held on to a schoolgirl crush for five fucking years? On a professor, no less. Did you really think he would be receptive? Did you actually think he'd be even remotely interested in you? He probably thought you were a fucking creep. _Nothing could ever come of this_. You'd convinced yourself of that for years, but now that there was a thread of hope, a straw to grasp on to, a _chance_… you'd _ruined_ it by shooting out of the fucking gate before you could even stop to _think_. And you'd _kissed_ him. God, you hadn't even asked if it was _okay_ you'd just dived in and kissed him and… _and_…

And he'd… kissed you _back_… hadn't he?

He'd kissed you _twice_, actually.

You felt like throwing up again, but managed to swallow it down as you finally started to get a hold of yourself. Your breathing was too fast, hitching and hiccupping as you tried to slow it down, but you screwed your eyes shut tight, rolling flat onto your back and trying to concentrate on where your body met the floor. The ache of your bones against solid stone, the twinge in your lower back you got from sleeping on your stomach. You pulled in deep, shuddering breaths through your snotty nose, and did your best to release them slowly through your mouth. One at a time… in and out… slowly… count to ten… start over… and over… slow, now…

He'd said you needed to talk about it.

That didn't mean it had to be a _bad_ talk, right?

Severus Snape was not the sort of man to indulge the whims of a silly girl just because he was afraid of _hurting her feelings_. He could have pushed you away, if he'd wanted to. Would have told you he wasn't interested, had that been the case. He hadn't had nearly as much to drink as you'd had. He'd had the presence of mind to stop you, when you'd tried to pull him into your room. Had told you to rest, to sleep. That you'd talk in the morning… _He'd_ kissed _you_… He'd taken care of you… he was always taking care of you… Maybe you hadn't ruined anything… _maybe_…

A sudden rattling sound from your bedroom made you gasp with fright, your soul practically leaving your body as you jolted to sit up. You were quickly brought back down to earth as your head spun, and you groaned as you buried your face in your hands in an attempt to stop the room from tilting. You could hear quiet shuffling from beyond the bathroom door, and you knew you couldn't hide in here forever. Though your nerves were shot and your body protested, you managed to roll yourself onto your knees before using the edge of the sink to pull yourself to your feet. You didn't know where you wand was, and you felt like an idiot all over again. Moving as slowly and carefully as your aching body would allow, you edged towards the door frame, and peeked out into your well lit room.

What you found… was a house-elf. Standing on your breakfast table in front of the window, and fussing around a tray. It was the same house-elf from McGonagall's office, you realized. The one with the face like a piglet and wearing an old flour sack. Though you noticed that the sack looked a little more like a proper dress today, as it was cinched at the waist with some sort of belt. And as your eyes began to adjust to the brightness of the room, you realized with a shock that the belt was actually a length of bronze colored butchers twine.

This singular little detail was enough to finally break you out of your obsessive thoughts. You'd transfigured that twine yourself. You'd tried to make it gold, but your spell work had been shoddy at best, and you'd just ended up with that tarnished bronze. You'd left little bundles of biscuits out for the elves as a Merry Christmas, as a thank you for being allowed into their domain… you hadn't thought any of them would have kept the _wrapping_ as well. And for all these years?

Sometimes it was hard to remember that there was anything else going on outside of your own little world. For months it had revolved around your emotional agony. Your depression. Your anxiety. They had all seemed so big at the time… And last night, this morning, as everything came to a head and you felt that your world might be crumbling beneath you once again… It was funny, how a little thing could put it all back into perspective. You might have spent the rest of the day sequestered in your bathroom had this elf not arrived in her charming little flour sack to remind you that you were at Hogwarts again. That you were about to become the Professor of Muggle Studies. That you had classes starting in two weeks, and a date to have tea with Mr. Filch later this afternoon. No matter what had happened last night… last month… last _year_… You'd been given a fresh start, which was starting right _now_.

"Good morning, Flopsy," you called quietly as you exited the bathroom, hoping not to startle the elf. You winced slightly as your voice croaked, but smiled all the same as the elf rounded on you, her own smile beaming as brightly as the sun behind her. Her countenance faltered slightly at the sight of you (_did you really look that bad_?), but she recovered quickly as she snapped her fingers, and you breathed a sigh of relief when the yellow curtains framing the window drew themselves in. They weren't thick enough to plunge the room into darkness, but you appreciated the soft, warm glow filtering through them, instead of the direct glare of the rising sun. It reminded you of being in the Hufflepuff common room again. You would have to invest in some house plants…

"Good morning, Miss Goode!" Flopsy squeaked, but her smile waivered again as she wilted. "I mean! Professor Goode!" she corrected herself, and she looked at you guiltily, as if searching for your disapproval. She would find none, however, as you had no interest in watching an elf punish itself, and you honestly weren't even remotely offended by the slip. You simply kept smiling, pulling out one of the chairs from the table and settling into it, your back protesting slightly. You really hated when you slept on your stomach… Flopsy was watching you closely, but she smiled meekly as she took the tips of her ears into her hands, drawing them coyly under her chin. "You remember Flopsy, Miss?" she asked, twisting from side to side in childish anticipation.

Geeze, she was cute. You nodded eagerly in reply, but stopped immediately as your head pounded in protest. "I do," you confirmed, watching as Flopsy released her ears (_they snapped back into place like they were made of elastic_) and quickly turned back to the tray. She proceeded to charm the large silver carafe into the air, pouring a measure of fantastically strong smelling coffee into one of the cups. "I remembered you yesterday, too. You used to help me when I was a student, whenever I wanted to cook for myself." Flopsy had placed the cup and saucer onto the table before you, and you reached out towards her, pinching the tassel of bronze twine that hung from her waist between your fingers. "How could I ever forget you?"

Flopsy looked simply fit to burst, bouncing on her toes for a moment before throwing herself onto the table before you. You quickly lifted your coffee cup from its saucer, rescuing it from the mighty rattle caused by the force of her prostration. "Oh, Miss, you're too kind!" she simpered, crawling towards you and peering up with bright, misty eyes. "I remembered you, too! Always so _nice_ to the elves, you were. I always kept the gifts your left! Elves don't get many gifts." You settled your cup back onto the table, and the elf took the opportunity to seize your hand, her tiny fists clutching on to your thumb and pinkie finger as she leaned over to kiss the back of your knuckles. You were so startled by this gesture that you were powerless to do anything but sit back and watch her do it. "Flopsy is so happy to see you back at Hogwarts, Miss. Hogwarts missed you _terribly_." Finally releasing you, she sat back on her knobby knees in order to gaze up at you. She was just so… genuinely happy about you being here. You were glad to know that someone was. You were about to tell her as much, when she leaned in close to you again, a conspiratorial glint in her violet eyes as she placed her hands on either side of her mouth before whispering, "_Master of Potions_ missed you terribly, too."

You blinked rapidly down at her, as she just kept smiling that knowing smile. You felt your cheeks grow warm at the connotations of this confession, and rubbed a hand over your face in order to hide your shame. "What makes you say _that_?" you grumbled, and you heard tittering giggles from the table. F… Freakin' house-elves! They had no business being all up in your, uh, business. But, then again… if she happened to have any _insight_…

You peeked one eye out from between your fingers as you heard her hop to her feet again, pattering across the table to take hold of the tray and push it towards you. "Because Master of Potions told me to bring this up to you," Flopsy professed, quite proudly too as she puffed up her little chest. It seemed like it was quite an honor to have received the job herself. "He told me to tell him when you were awake. And he told me to make sure to bring you a croi-" Her self-satisfaction disappeared, and a moment later, she disappeared as well with a loud pop. You dropped your hand from your face, blinking again at the empty spot on the table where she once had been, but just as quickly as she'd gone, she returned, a large plate piled high with croissants in her hands. She placed the platter onto the tray as if they had absolutely been there the entire time. "A croissant!"

You stared down at the elf, at the tray, at the croissants, and you sucked your bottom lip into your mouth as you tried not to cry again. The last thing you needed was to dissolve into hysterics in front of a house-elf; you certainly didn't wish to offend her either. So, naturally, you started giggling, dropping your face into your hand again, and covering up your tears as you bubbled with laughter. Because _of fucking course _he did. Of course he would send you coffee after a long, drunken night. Of course he would remember that you were fond of croissants, from the _one fucking time_ you'd ever mentioned it to him at the Society meeting. And of course he wanted to know when you were up. Maybe to talk to you. Maybe just make sure that you were alright. But either way…

Flopsy looked concerned as you wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand, and you sniffled as you attempted to put the smile back on your face. "_Thank you_, Flopsy," you assured her, reaching your hand out towards her, and she happily, though reluctantly, placed her little hand against your palm. "I really appreciate it." You sighed heavily, resigning yourself to the fact that… he probably wanted to talk. As soon as possible. If he felt anywhere as anxious as you did, it might be best to just get this out of the way now. "You can go ahead and tell him that I'm… up…"

Flopsy's face had gone from a wide, warm smile to a tight, anxious one. And in the split second between her nervous glance towards your bedroom door, and the sudden burst of knocking from it, you realized that she _had already told him_. The elf smiled apologetically, before disappearing finally with a loud snap. You stared dazedly down at the table once again, and sighed long-sufferingly at the second knock from your door. _Bloody house-elves_…

Your heart was thudding in your throat as you rose from your chair, wincing at the ache in your bones, the dull throb in your head. You would have liked some time to freshen up, to center yourself, to brush your damn _teeth_. But that was clearly too much to ask for. Flopsy was a good elf… but she needed to work on her timing. You at least allowed yourself a few deep, steadying breaths, before unlatching your door and pulling it open. And what you saw was infuriating.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you leaned against the door frame, looking him over deliberately. You would be hard pressed to believe that the man standing in your doorway had ever consumed an alcoholic beverage in his life. Severus was impeccably put together, as always. Not a button askew or a swath of hair out of place. He may have appeared a little tired, but he _always_ looked like that, so it didn't count. He was gazing down at you sympathetically, almost as apologetic as Flopsy had been. And yet, you felt inexplicably calm from his mere presence. Hair of the dog that bit you, you guessed; he was the soothing balm to the burn that he had given you in the first place.

You inhaled deeply, before letting out a dramatic sigh. "Is that a Sobering Solution in your pocket," you began, attempting to quell the stupid grin that threatened to split your face in half as you scanned your eyes over him again. "Or are you just happy to- " You dropped your arms to your sides as you watched him slip his hand into the front pocket of his frock coat, drawing from it a small amber apothecary bottle that you knew, undoubtedly, was filled with Sobering Solution. "Oh… damn it." You glared, as now it was his turn to fight the mirth from his features, and you snatched the small bottle from his fingers as you turned your back on him with a huff. "Coffee?" you threw over your shoulder, resisting the urge to just slam the door in his face, though there was no real conviction in the desire.

"Please," he replied from the doorway, his voice dripping with barely restrained smugness. But that self-satisfaction evaporated as he stepped through the threshold and into your bedroom. He seemed to hesitate as he shut the door quietly behind him, and his furtive glances around your sparse quarters did not go amiss. "You… haven't unpacked yet?" he asked conversationally, but the concerned line forming between his brows belied his tone.

And you winced at the question, because it was just another reminder that no, you hadn't unpacked a single trunk. Because the first thing you'd done after arriving yesterday was go looking for _him_. And then after you'd _found_ him... For god's sake, you were wearing the _same clothes _from last night. You felt gross all of a sudden, grimy and barefoot and wild-haired. You wished your robes weren't lying in a heap on the floor on the other side of the bed (_could he see them there_?) so you could wrap yourself up in them to hide your shame. And you still didn't know where your bloody _wand_ had ended up…

"Haven't exactly had much time," you admitted sheepishly, taking your seat at the breakfast table again, biting back a groan as your back complained. You stretched a leg out under the table, kicking the other chair out in a rather uncivilized invitation for him to sit, and he snorted as he accepted it, striding across the room to join you. "I've only been awake for… maybe thirty minutes?"

Severus looked stricken for a moment, stopping halfway as he was settling into his chair. There was a beat of silence before he audibly groaned, dropping back into his seat as he dropped his face into his hand, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. "Flopsy…" he sighed, and you didn't bother fighting back your laughter this time. It still made your head ache, but you were about to take care of that any way.

"She did her best," you assured him, pushing the breakfast tray to the middle of the table for him to reach. (_Had there always been two mugs…?_) You watched surreptitiously as he made his coffee (_one sugar, no cream_), and you went about preparing your own, using your teeth to pull out the cork from the amber bottle. Had any other person handed you this potion, you would have inspected it thoroughly before you even considered ingesting it. But even after the mishap with the Purging Potion… or rather, _because_ of it, you would never question a single potion given to you by your Potions Master ever again. You didn't even bother sniffing it as you poured the contents of the small bottle into your coffee cup, before replacing the stopper and using your spoon to stir in the pale orange liquid into the black.

"Thank you, by the way. For sending up the tray," you murmured, lifting the cup to your lips and taking a small sip. Almost instantly you could feel the vice grip around your brain loosen a tick, the stone in your stomach become a hair lighter. The potion made your coffee taste strongly of turmeric and licorice, but you certainly weren't complaining. He glanced up at you before turning his gaze to the tray, his eyes narrowing slightly, and you got the feeling that he was silently chastising Flopsy again for apparently revealing all of his good deeds. You plucked up one of the croissants from the platter then, thoroughly intending to rub it in as you casually commented, "You know, these are my favorite."

He rolled his eyes, this time with his own long-suffering sigh, and you dropped your head to hide your snickering. A comfortable silence settled over the both of you then. Sipping coffee, unraveling croissants, staring out of the sliver in the curtains that looked out over the Black Lake. This felt good. This felt _natural_. You felt like a student again, during those late nights in the potions lab for your apprenticeship. The way you seamlessly fell together, the comfort of simply being in his presence. Years apart had changed nothing, expect that you were older now, and the barriers that had kept you apart had crumbled over the years. He wasn't your professor any more. You weren't his student. You felt closer to him than ever. And there was nothing stopping you now, from acting as freely as you wished.

Except, of course…

"We need to talk about last night."

You closed your eyes, drawing a deep, shuddering breath and holding it as you let your head tip backwards. While you absolutely wanted to get this over with, you'd hoped that you _wouldn't_ have to talk about last night. Because the way that he said it…

_Nothing can come of this_…

"Oh, I don't like the sound of that," you admitted as you released the breath that you held with a hollow _whoosh_. You dropped the croissant to your saucer (_you hadn't even managed to take a bite_) and sat up straight again, gazing across the table at him, where he was looking just about as miserable as you felt. "Do we have to?" you tried, fiddling with the handle of your cup. You lifted it to your lips, but you thought you might choke if you actually had to drink any.

Severus closed his eyes this time, like you did when you tried to steady yourself. So you braced for the worst, and indeed it came, swift and fatal. "Gwendolyn, I'm sorry. But I can't… do this." He managed to keep his voice smooth and even as ever, but you noticed that he wasn't holding his own coffee cup. His hands were in his lap, so you couldn't see if they were shaking from under the table. And his eyes were downcast, so you couldn't see if they were as regretful as you hoped they were.

You forced yourself to take another sip of coffee, not wanting to continue this conversation with all of the physical discomfort you were already in. You didn't choke, but you did have to force yourself to swallow without retching, the effects of the potion conflicting with your nerves. "And what is 'this', exactly?" you asked quietly, taking a page out of his own book and staring down into your cup. You simply couldn't meet his eye. If you did, you would likely burst into tears, and you didn't want to continue the trend of crying in front of him at every available opportunity.

"It's… just not a good idea. To take this any further," he began, his voice halting and unsure now, that evenness disappearing. You'd never heard him like this before. He'd always been so confident in everything he did and said. Which just made you think… _hope_… that these were things he didn't actually _mean_. You finally looked up, catching his eye as you leaned forward, eyebrows raised imploringly. He hadn't answered your question. You wanted him to _say_ it. He frowned deeply and looked away, and your dread only rose higher. "_This_ being a… relationship… with me." He seemed unsure about that, too. As if he was afraid that he had read into the situation wrong. But that couldn't be further from the truth, because a relationship with him was _exactly_ what you wanted.

"And why's that?" you asked, perhaps a bit hotter than you intended. Your own rant at yourself from the bathroom floor came bubbling to the surface, all of those perfectly good reasons why this should never work. But those reasons were… they were bullshit! And you were going to tell him so. Because you desperately wanted him to be _wrong_.

Your mug thumped against the table as you leaned forward earnestly, cutting him off before he could even open his mouth. "And don't you dare say it's because of your age, or because you used to be my professor." The words were tumbling out of your mouth with no filter, no direction. Your emotions had taken over and your logic could only sit back and watch. "We're both adults, and it's… That's never bothered me before." You felt childish just admitting that, which was perfectly contradictory to the words you just spoke. But you held fast to that conviction. It _hadn't _ever bothered you before. Not at the Atticus, when you had slept soundly in his bed for one night. Not in Albania, where you'd spilled your guts onto paper just to be closer to him. And not last night, when you'd confessed the one truth you'd been holding on to for years.

Severus for his part, didn't even look shocked by this profession. Perhaps he'd been expecting this argument, and had a counter argument of his own already prepared. But the resignation on his face told you that what he had to say would be so much worse than any of those paltry excuses.

"You don't even _know_ me," he stated solemnly, and you felt your heart plummet down into your guts. What did he mean? How could he say that? You'd known him, worked with him, corresponded with him for _years_. _Of course_ you knew-

"You don't know anything _about_ me," he cut in to your internal protestation, as if he'd been reading your mind. He hadn't been, though. You were sure of it. "My life. My past. What I even do when I'm not teaching here at Hogwarts." Your heart sank further and further as he spoke, and you felt like you were going to throw up. Because he was… right… And that realization was causing quiet panic to swell within you. His resignation deepened into regret, and you had to set your cup down to keep from spilling it. "I come with a lot of baggage," he murmured with a note of finality, leaning back in his chair and staring down at his hands in his lap. "None of which you should have to deal with."

Your throat clicked as you swallowed back your unease, wishing that you could take another sip of the Sobering Solution to calm your roiling insides, but fearing that the attempt would send you running back to the bathroom. You took a deep breath, staring down into the black circle of coffee as you absorbed his words, tried to find a counter for them. You forced a little laugh as you lifted one shaking hand to rub at the side of your face.

"I'm not dense either, Severus," you explained, repeating his own words from last night back to him, settling your cheek into your palm, your elbow propped up against the table. "You think I didn't figure _that_ out for myself? I was _twelve_ when I began to notice how much armor you wear." He started slightly at that, meeting your eyes again (_finally_), and you snorted at how shocked he seemed to be. "That was the year you started wearing the buttons," you clarified, using your other hand to gesture vaguely towards the very outfit he wore. He glanced down at his chest, and you snickered, though there was no mirth behind any of this laugher. "I would never accuse you of making anything easy…"

He had the gall to look affronted by that, but you just smiled sadly. He had a point, that you didn't know all there was to know about Severus Snape. Of course you didn't know everything about a man who wore mystery like a badge of honor. But it was silly of him to think that you somehow weren't aware of that. And it was even more hurtful to think that it would somehow turn you _away_.

"But I need you to understand something," you implored, dropping both hands to your coffee cup, not picking it up, but simply warming your fingers, tapping your fingertips against the smooth porcelain, your anxiety insisting you do something with your hands. "I'm not… not interested in some petty fling. Some… little amusement. I…" You laughed again, glancing wildly around as if looking for the words to get him to understand. "I'm not just looking for some boyfriend to warm my lonely nights. If that's all I was after, I could owl Lawrence Hollingsworth and get exactly that." You winced at your own words, at the harsh truth of them, glad that Lawrence wasn't here to hear it. But it was the only thing you could think of to say, to get the point across… "But that's not what I _want_."

Severus appeared to grow more agitated, more distressed with each word you spoke. And you winced when you saw him clench his fists against the edge of the table, his grip white knuckle as he leaned towards you. "So you want _me_ instead?" he snapped, his voice rising incredulously, his tone accusatory. As if he thought this was all some ruse. Like he was having a prank pulled on him.

And with each cynical syllable, you could feel your heart breaking. Didn't he trust you? Hadn't he acquiesced last night, that your feelings were sincere? What had happened to make him think that you were being anything but entirely genuine with him? "Is that so hard to believe?" you questioned, your voice cracking along with your resolve as you wilted under his intense regard.

"Yes!" he barked, rising suddenly from his chair and pacing a few steps across the room. You watched stiffly, a little fearful that you had said entirely the wrong thing, because frankly the only time you had ever seen him this demonstrative was when he'd cracked Gilderoy Lockhart across the face. He turned back around, his arms crossed over his narrow chest and his face marred with skepticism. "Have you _seen_ me?" he asked, less heated now, but still just as defensive. Which just… absolutely baffled you, because being defensive about one's own perceived unattractiveness was just… _absurd_.

This time Severus was the one who winced as you stood with conviction, flinching aside as you pushed past him towards you bed, and to the open trunk at the foot of it. You didn't have far to dig; you had packed it with your essentials, because to you, it _was_ essential. You grasped the small sateen bundle, already tugging at the knot as you withdrew it from your trunk, and let the silky fabric fall away from the familiar square bottle as you stepped back toward the table. The bottle glowed faintly, a pale, silvery strand of mist curling and writhing within as you set it on the table with a muted tap.

"I have spent more time inside of that memory than I care to admit," you told him flatly, unable to look at him, because admitting it was sort of mortifying. "Any time I was feeling like shit, which has been quite a lot lately, I'd pull that out and dive into in _specifically_ so that I could see you." You rubbed both of your hands over your face as you sat back in your chair, your cheeks hot with humiliation. You propped your elbows on the table as you slid your fingers into your hair.

"I've…" _God, were you really going tell him this_? "I've been with other people, since I've left Hogwarts," you admitted, and you heard him shift back towards the table, saw him pick up the bottle from the corner of your eye. "And not a single one of them have made me feel anything _close_ to what I feel from just… _being around you_." You swallowed hard, closing your eyes tightly against the sick feeling of shame that rose up your throat as you confessed, "A few minutes in your memory was better than any night spent in someone else's bed."

It wasn't even an exaggeration. As much as you'd loved Desma, she had only ever felt like a close friend to you. Even when you'd slept together, it had been for fun more than anything else. And Lawrence… You cherished him in your own way, and he'd always be your first lover, but he'd never been your first _love_. And that was an important distinction. Because no one else could even compare-

No one… _else_…

Dread suddenly joined the shame you were already feeling, thick and bitter in the back of your throat as you came to a sudden, horrifying realization. You had never even thought… never even _considered…_ that there might be... a _possibility_…

"_Is_ there someone else?" you asked hoarsely, your face still downcast at the table, your fingers still buried in your hair. You couldn't look at him. You had no idea how he looked at this moment, because you were afraid to lift your eyes and find confirmation. That there was someone else. He'd never mentioned anyone for as long as you'd been his student. Surely it would have come up, if there _had_ been someone? But what about when you'd left? You'd been gone for three years… What if he'd met someone during that time? What if you were actually the one who had read into the situation all wrong? You prayed he wasn't doing the thing, where he wanted you to look at him before he answered, because you couldn't. You just _couldn't, not if-_

"…Not exactly."

The reply was quiet, stoic. He'd placed the bottle containing his own memory back onto the table, but remained where he stood. And you weren't sure if it made you feel better or worse. _Not exactly_? What the fuck did that even mean_?_

You finally lifted your head to peer up at him from between your hands, and you felt your breath stick in your throat at the sight of him. You'd seen that look on him before; a grief so deep, he appeared to age years in a matter of moments. You'd seen it in the Hog's Head, in your sixth year, when you'd gotten the impression that he wasn't being entirely truthful with you, but you hadn't pressed him because it had been none of your business. And you thought that… it wasn't your business this time either.

With a submissive sigh, you pulled your hands from your hair, slipping them into your lap and fidgeting with the hem of your blouse as you dropped your gaze away from that profound sorrow. "You're right. I guess I _don't _know much about you," you finally acknowledged, and he seemed to relax at that, apparently relieved that you weren't going to press the subject this time either. "But I _do_ know that you've taken care of me for _years_." You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed as you bared your soul in this moment. Because that's what it came down to, wasn't it? From the day he'd allowed you to write your essays on lined paper, he'd done nothing but watch over you. Take care of you. Do his best to make sure you succeeded. How were you supposed to just _ignore_ that? "No one has ever cared about me the same way you do-"

"I _do_ care about you." Your eyes jumped up to meet his, momentarily shocked by this passionate declaration, because you were quite certain that this was the first time he'd ever admitted to having any sort of feelings towards you. Sure, it was blatantly obvious in his actions, at least to you, but he'd never _said_ it before… not in so many words.

Your jubilation was short lived as his face hardened though, a flash of that earlier grief washing over his features once more. "Which is exactly why we _can't do this_. Why _I_ can't do this." He started pacing again, turning his back to take a few steps toward your bed, before coming back around, seemingly gathering his thoughts.

"Gwendolyn I…" He came to a stop a few paces away, gazing across the space between you forlornly. "I'm not a free man," he explained, his voice laden with regret. "I don't have the luxury of being allowed to pursue…" He lifted his head, this time being the one to search around the room for the right word, making a vague hand gesture as he apparently couldn't come up with one. You had a sinking feeling that the word he was looking for was _happiness_. He sighed heavily, dropping his head and clenching his fists as he continued quietly, "It would be _stupid_, and _reckless_ of me, to subject you to the danger that being with me would put you in."

You started, his words catching you entirely off guard and filling you with a nauseating deluge of fear and confusion. "_Danger_?" you repeated incredulously, uncrossing your arms as you made to stand from your chair. "Severus, what in the world-"

"You see!?" he cried, and you fell back into your seat as he charged a step at you, his face a grimace of anguish and frustration. "This is what I mean!" You flinched at his raised voice, his sudden sharp movement, and he seemed to realize he'd lost his composure. Taking a step back, he held up his hands pacifyingly as he lowered his voice. "There are things you don't know about me," he explained, softer, more controlled. "Things I can't tell you." He looked around the room again, and this time you could tell he was the one searching for the evidence that would make you finally understand. Taking a step toward you again, he waited to make sure you wouldn't cringe away, before walking to the table and kneeling down beside your chair.

Your heart thudded in your throat as you stared down at him, and your entire body trembled as he drew your hand into his own. "You said that you trust me?" he asked softly, and you nodded automatically. There was no doubt in your mind. "Then please… trust me about this," he pleaded, and your heart clenched painfully in your chest as those glittering black eyes pierced into you. "I've always done my best, to protect the people that I… I care about. To protect… you." The corners of his lips twitched in warring directions, an attempt to smile thwarted by the overwhelming misery in his words. "But I've failed at it before… More times than I can bare. I don't want to risk that happening again…"

You were shivering, you realized. Not just trembling, but actually _shivering_, your teeth clattering together in your skull. You clamped down on them as screwed your eyes shut, clutching desperately at his hand for dear life. He grasped you back, and you felt tears slip past your lids, despite your best efforts. You didn't know what he meant, when he said that he'd failed to protect the people he cared for. Whether he meant you personally, having failed you at the Society meeting, and again with Belby. Or if there were others he had failed. Others he felt guilt over. That seemed most likely, and the truth of it only hurt you more.

"Okay," you gasped, nodding reluctantly, finally forcing your eyes open. He was still kneeling before you, and you couldn't resist as you lifted your free hand, the one that wasn't clinging to him like a lifeline, and used it to brush your fingers over his cheek. "I trust you," you affirmed, and he closed his eyes with a sigh of relief that only wounded you deeper. You sniffled, trying your hardest not to completely dissolve, and you cupped his jaw with your palm, forcing him to look back up at you. "But please… Severus… _Please_, don't rule me out…"

His lips bowed into a frown, and you realized with rising hopelessness that this was a promise he wouldn't be able to make. But he did close his eyes again, and this time he leaned slightly into your touch. Your heart fluttered wildly against your ribcage, desperate for that affection, for that vulnerability, to have this one thing that you desired so urgently. "It's not that I don't want this," he whispered, an assurance that you would cling to just as tightly as you were holding his hand. "But I'm just… not ready." He opened those dark eyes again, and you wished that you could be the one to peer into his mind. But perhaps just like yours… his sincerity was plain. "Not yet."

_Not yet_… You sighed and nodded gently, finally releasing your grip on his hand, sliding your fingers over his skin as you withdrew them from his face. "Okay," you whispered as he finally stood. And you felt like you were supposed to join him. Like this was the part where you walked him to the door, and showed him out, and had to go about the rest of your day (_week, year, life_) pretending like you weren't letting go of the most precious thing you'd held on to for so long… so you stayed right where you were, seated in your chair as you gazed up at him. "Then I'll wait."

Severus frowned deeply, brows knitting in confusion as he stared down at you with narrowed eyes. "Wait?" he repeated, and you smiled sadly as you lifted your hand to take his again. No… you wouldn't be letting go of this so easily.

"Until you're ready."

"Gwen…" Severus looked distressed, and perhaps irritated that you weren't simply dropping this after coming to an apparent understanding. He shifted to face you, ready to get back into it if need be. "You deserve better-"

"_You_ don't get to decide that for me," you interrupted, finally rising from your chair, still holding his hand. "I know what I want. And I understand what I'm signing up for," you reminded him, lifting his hand and pressing your lips against his knuckles. He looked taken aback, both by your assertions, as well as your gesture, and you couldn't help but smile, however sadly, that he was at all surprised by either one. "I'll wait as long as it takes."

Severus looked like he wanted to protest… but perhaps just as you had resigned yourself to waiting, he too had resigned himself to being unable to shake you. So instead he sighed, lifting his other hand hesitantly, before brushing a lock of your flaxen hair to the side. He seemed like he wanted to do more (_to plunge his hand into your hair, to cradle the back of your neck, to crush his lips against yours and give in_), but resisted, perhaps for both of your sakes. "That could be a very long time," he reminded you, and you closed your eyes, nodding in agreement. Though you hoped that wouldn't be the case.

"I'll be here."


	18. Chapter 18 - Light Year Love Pt 1

Authors Note: Alright, SO. The next couple of chapters are basically going to be me re-telling Prisoner of Azkaban from Gwen's POV lmao. I kind of intend to break up this... chapter? Next couple of chapters? Into smaller, bite-sized bits, that I just think are too small to be their own chapters (hence why this part contains two separate scenes).

This is... experimental. I never INTENDED to write this when I first started planning Dream Sequence as a story. But I'm just so excited to get Gwen into "canon" that I can't help myself. And PoA was always my favorite book. I want to give it my own spin.

YES things will happen in terms of Sev and Gwen's relationship. Remember how Sev said that she doesn't even know him? Well she's gonna learn what a paranoid weirdo he is real fast lol. Anyway hope you enjoy :'3

000

Pt. 1

You really could have done without all this rain.

Since you had arrived back at Hogwarts, the weather had become increasingly drearier. Bright summer sun had turned into gloomy overcast skies, eventually culminating into this rather magnificent storm on the evening of the Welcoming Feast. Not that you didn't love a good storm; there was nothing quite like curling up next to a large window with a cup of tea, watching the clouds and the rain and the lightning roll in, counting the seconds between the flash and the boom of thunder. But the steady decline of the weather happened to be a direct reflection of your personal emotional state, and frankly, you didn't appreciate being called out by Mother Nature like this.

You couldn't afford to fall back into another depression. You weren't back home with your mum around to take care of you; you were on your own again, and had to figure out how to take care of yourself before you were tasked with the responsibility of looking after hundreds of young students in less than two weeks. So, you had run away from your brutal disappointment and bitter frustrations by diving into your work. You'd unpacked all of your trunks in less than two days, methodically emptying box after box, decorating your new living quarters and setting up your classroom in record time. It had been a soothing sort of monotony, to take up an item and search for its new place in your new life, and it served to distract you for a time. But once you had completed the task… it left you with far too much time on your hands.

When he had visited your home, Dumbledore had recommended you take the time to reacquaint yourself with the castle. So, you'd done just that, familiarizing yourself with all of the floors and classrooms, from the astronomy tower to the dungeons. Then you'd taken your explorations out onto the grounds, walking the fields and paths from the edge of the Dark Forest to the shore of the Black Lake. Your ventures weren't always solitary, either; occasionally you were accompanied by Mrs. Norris, who'd taken quite a fancy to you after your first teatime date with Mr. Filch (_who you suspected had _also_ taken quite a fancy to you_). Occasionally you would run into ghosts, receiving warm welcomes from both the Fat Friar and Sir Nicholas, and considerably colder greetings from the Grey Lady and the Bloody Barron. And then, of course, Peeves had trapped you in the Owlery for nearly an hour, and it had taken sending a rather humiliating letter down to McGonagall before you were finally released.

Thankfully, more and more teachers started to trickle into the castle as the days crawled by. You were both relieved and intimidated to find that the vast majority of the professors you would be working with were the very same professors who had taught you. You were also a bit startled to find that many of them were actually thrilled to see you. Your social calendar had been fuller in the past two weeks than it had been in the past two years. And frankly you were very happy for it, because once again, it had given you something productive and positive to do with your time. And all of the socializing was starting to slowly acclimate you back up to the surface, after days of feeling like you were drowning.

You'd had tea with Filius Flitwick, getting into a long conversation about founders magic, and the effect it had been having on you since you arrived. You'd spent nearly an entire night up in the astronomy tower with Aurora Sinistra, gazing at stars and discussing the first flight of the space shuttle Endeavour early last May. You'd been shocked to hear that Professor Kettleburn had finally thrown in the towel after all these years, but were elated when Hagrid told you that he would be taking up the post.

And you'd had an exceptionally long and tear-filled chat with Pomona Sprout, spilling your guts about your time in Albania, the fallout with Belby, your strained relationship with Lawrence, and your anxiety over… um… becoming a teacher... She'd been just as soothing and encouraging as she had been when she was your Head of House. Just having her to lean on, to cry into her shoulder and have her embrace you like the grandmother you'd never had, had been incredibly comforting. It was relieving to know that you had someone like that on your side, that you had someone you could confide in… Even if you were avoiding telling her what was actually on your mind.

Because it had been two weeks since you'd actually spoken to Severus.

Two weeks of awkward glances during staff meetings. Two weeks of passing each other in the halls, unwilling or unable to say anything beyond a curt greeting. It was absolute bloody torture, and it made you feel sick every time you lost another moment with him. Because this wasn't what you had wanted to happen…

_And you really could have done without all this rain…_

You should have been down in the Great Hall, socializing with the rest of the teachers as you waited for the Hogwarts Express to arrive for the Welcoming Feast. You were supposed to be excited. It was supposed to be thrilling! But the thought of mulling about the teachers table for an hour beforehand sounded absolutely miserable. So you'd stolen away to the staffroom, planting yourself in a squashy arm chair and gazing out the high, arched windows as the storm crept ever closer.

You really hoped the weather wasn't setting the stage for the rest of the year. It wasn't like rain in Scotland was a big shocker or anything. But… Well, you had made the mistake of paying a visit to Sybil Trelawney just this afternoon. She was the only other past teacher of yours whom you hadn't taken the time to catch up with since your arrival. She'd welcomed you cheerfully enough; you hadn't been super stellar at Divination, and hadn't made it past your O.W.L.'s, but you'd always enjoyed her class, and she seemed to appreciate that you'd given it your best shot, even if your inner eye was nearsighted. However, one cup of tea and a casual warning later, you weren't feeling as optimistic as you had been after your talk with Sprout. There had been a treacherous rat in your tea leaves, apparently, and she had told you to take caution in whom you placed your trust. It had been a dreadful echo of something Severus had told you weeks ago… that you were entirely too trusting. And he wasn't even wrong. It had gotten you in trouble before…

You sighed as you placed your second warming charm on the cup of coffee you'd been nursing for the past half hour, not feeling too inclined towards tea any more today.

The staffroom was dark; you'd extinguished the fire on the far end of the room once you'd acquired your coffee so you could watch the storm through the darkened windows. The only light beyond came from the rapidly setting sun behind the clouds, and the nearly full moon that was looming above them. That was one thing you actually _were_ looking forward to tonight; meeting the new Defense professor. You hoped he would be well enough to attend the feast. If he'd undergone his transformation without the aid of Wolfsbane potion last night… you knew that the recovery time for an average transformation was not swift, and he would likely be at least lethargic, if he hadn't been outright injured by the ordeal. You were still befuddled as to why he'd decided not to arrive to the castle early, before the moon. Then maybe you could have at least gotten in a practice run before the next moon at the end of the month.

Your quiet introspection about werewolves and tealeaves was interrupted by the staffroom door creaking open, the light from the hallway beyond slicing a path across the darkened room to land on you. You squinted against the brightness as you leaned over the arm of your chair, disgruntled that your hiding place had finally been discovered. But your disappointment was replaced with a pang of apprehension as you recognized the silhouette carved out by the light beyond the door frame.

"There you are," Severus sighed as he stepped into the staffroom, allowing the door to swing shut behind him and plunging the room back into darkness. Your eyes complained at the back and forth between light and dark, but it wasn't long before you were shrouded in the much softer light of Severus' Lumos charm. You smiled meekly as he approached, the glow from his wand illuminating his own impassive features, but you were pleased to find one questioning eyebrow raised.

"Were you looking for me?" you asked innocently, genuinely curious (_hopeful_) if he had been. He hadn't paid much attention to you at all for the past few weeks. Or so it had appeared. Though to be fair, you hadn't made much of an effort to seek him out, either. You figured that you both had just needed a little time… Some distance couldn't hurt, given the current circumstances. (_Except that it did hurt. It hurt so fucking much. You had waited for years to see him again and now_…)

"As a matter of fact, yes I was," he stated, his eyes jumping from your cup of coffee, to your legs tucked up on the arm chair, then over to the empty fireplace. "Why are you sitting alone in the dark?" he asked plainly, and you made an affronted little noise as his gaze turned back to you. Like Mr. Dungeon Bat had any room to talk about how anyone should spend their time in the dark!

But you merely shrugged as you leaned back against the plush comfort of your chair, pulling your eyes away from him to stare out the window. The rain was pelting against the glass now, and beyond the shimmer of water cascading down the glass, you could see the swaying trees of the forest, and the white capped waves off of the lake. A streak of lightning illuminated the whole room, followed seconds later by its rumble of thunder. "I was watching the storm," you explained simply, retrieving your mug of coffee from the window sill and taking a deliberate sip from its cold contents.

Severus stared, the light from his Lumos charm shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest disapprovingly. "You should be in the Great Hall by now," he chastised, and for a brief moment, you got the disappointing impression that he has been looking for you on _someone else's_ orders… But then he surprised you by sliding into the brown leather chair that was situated across from you, setting his still lit wand down on the window sill as he gazed out through the darkened window himself. You stared at him this time, your eyebrows creeping up your forehead, and he glanced towards you before waving his hand dismissively. "The Hogwarts Express has been delayed," he explained, and you frowned at the news. That didn't sound good… "We received word that the Dementors deemed it fit to search the entire train before allowing it to pass into Hogsmeade. Albus in livid."

Oh, yeah. Definitely not good. "Jesus… I can imagine," you murmured, staring down into your coffee cup, suddenly not feeling very inclined to finish it. You placed it back on the window sill with a soft sigh. You'd actually forgotten about the Dementors. They would be arriving tonight as well... You had only ever read about them, but reading about werewolves hadn't exactly made you any more prepared to deal with them either. Were they the cause of this hideous weather? "They're taking this Sirius Black business pretty seriously, huh?" It was a stupid thing to say, because _duh_. But you were grasping at straws, for anything to say to keep him near. Keep him talking. This was the most he'd spoken to you in weeks…

But perhaps you had said the wrong thing. In the diminishing light of the Lumos charm, you saw his face twist into a rictus scowl that had you taken aback. "As they should," he spat, the vehemence behind his words causing you to stiffen. "He's a dangerous murderer, and he deserves what he's got coming to him." He was still facing the window, his chin in his palm and his elbow propped up on the armrest, but you could feel the loathing radiating off of him in waves. And it was… startling. He was usually so controlled. Or at least he had been when you were a student. But this was the second time he'd become seriously angry at the mere mention of a name since you'd returned, and it was alarming. You knew that Black was indeed a dangerous man, but most people spoke of him with fear or disgust. But what Severus seemed to harbor was true hatred, and you had to wonder if there was something else behind that detestation… You'd never given it much thought, but you knew Severus would have been a young man during the First Wizarding War. Had Black killed someone Severus had been close to..? Had You-Know-Who…?

Once upon a time, you might have been able to pluck up the courage to ask him just that. But now you were hesitant, staring across the empty space between you, unsure if you were allowed to ask him personal questions any more. He'd been so distant since he'd left your room that morning two weeks ago, both of you holding on to silent promises from the other. You understood why he may have wanted to distance himself, to keep you at arm's length. But you'd spent years chipping away at his defenses, rewarded with just the barest peek inside. And you weren't about to let him just seal the crack you'd made without putting up a fight. How were you supposed to learn more about him, if he was just going to shut you out?

"Hey, Severus?" you asked suddenly, starting up in your chair with a sudden jolt. He pulled his attention away from the window now, his face a smooth mask once again as he turned to face you, resting his cheek against his knuckles. Though... not _that_ smooth. The line between his brows had deepened, and there was an inexplicable softness around his eyes… It was an expression you were unfortunately familiar with. Concern, and beneath that… regret. It was the look he gave you when he realized that he was the cause of your suffering. And it broke your heart.

"Can…" You paused, trying to formulate the best way to make your request. But you knew that the only way to properly communicate what you needed to say, was to simply be honest. "Can things stop being weird, between us?" you asked quietly, a sad, rueful smile pulling at your lips. You hadn't come this far together, to pretend like you didn't even know each other anymore. You hadn't waited three fucking years to come back Hogwarts just to be denied the chance to be close to him again. You had accepted that you couldn't have what you desired just yet. But why did that mean you couldn't have anything at all in the meantime? "I miss you," you admitted softly, your eyes falling down to your lap as you fidgeted absently with the hem of your broomstick skirt. "And I just want to go back to the way things were before…"

Rain continued to patter against the window pane, though it seemed to be slowing down now. The thunder and lightning had thinned out as well, taking longer between flashes and booms through the sky. As the storm droned on outside, the silence within the staffroom felt oppressive, leaving so much empty space for panic to start setting in. But it was also a familiar sort of tension. Like how you used to feel waiting outside of his office door for him to come retrieve you. Or how he would wait for you to make eye contact with him before he…

Your eyes narrowed slightly as you finally lifted your eyes to meet his, and the subtle smirk curling the corner of his lip was utterly maddening. He'd been doing it since you were a girl, making sure he had your full attention before giving you his answer. It was like clockwork, and just like that, the tension snapped. You were snickering into the back of your hand, and he was lounging back in his chair, looking ever so smugly satisfied. And the overwhelming relief that came with being back to normal was palpable.

"Smartass," you muttered, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand, and it was his turn to bark out a laugh. Yes. God. You drank in the sound like nourishment, regretting the lack of a fire because you wanted to see it too. But it was still lingering on his lips as he reached toward the window sill and reclaimed his wand, the Lumos charm suddenly flashing back to full strength. You both took a few moments, simply staring at one another in the soft light of magic that circled you. Your own mirth petered out, and his face had relaxed to something passing for contented.

"I think I can manage that," he answered finally, holding one hand out for yours. You stared down at it, at those long, elegant fingers you'd been so shamefully obsessed with as a girl, and you made no hesitation as you slipped your hand into his, taking his invitation and allowing him to help haul you to your feet. But as you came to stand beside him, that contentment on his face seemed to harden, and you felt your heart flutter in your throat with fear as he asked, "Can you?"

You frowned slightly at this, and dropped you gaze as you stared down between the both of you. It was… a legitimate question. You couldn't just pretend your feelings didn't exist. They were out in the open now, and even the distance of the last few weeks had done nothing to dampen them. But you knew, or at least, you _hoped_, that he felt the same way… So maybe you couldn't go back to exactly the way things were before. But you could at least make the effort. You'd agreed to take things slow, to give him the time that he needed to… work out whatever it was that needed working out.

You smiled sadly as you slipped your hand out of his, crossing your arms under your chest instead as you nodded. "I'll… do my best," you promised him quietly. And you would… But you would use the time that he needed to your own advantage as well. You would strive to know him better. You would facilitate the bridges you'd already built between you in order to build new ones, and you would prove to him that it was safe to let you in.

You smiled sadly again as you felt a broad, warm hand settle onto the small of your back, and you leaned into it as you were quietly lead to the staffroom door. It certainly wasn't going to be easy. But you took comfort know that… you weren't the only one who was going to have a difficult time keeping your hands to yourself.

Pt. 2

It was a different vantage point from up here. So many years of your life had been spent sitting at those long house tables, eating and studying and laughing with your friends under the floating candles and enchanted ceiling. Every time you'd entered this hall after summer holidays as a girl, you were instantly reminded of just how _cool_ magic was. But gazing out over the tables now, from the perspective of the staff table was… _staggering_, to say the least. You'd been preparing for this for months; doing research, planning courses, packing trunks. You'd spent the last few weeks getting everything ready, and you were reasonably prepared to wake up tomorrow morning, put on your robes, and teach your first class. But right now, as you sat at the high table watching students pour in through the doorway, their shouts and laughter echoing off of the walls as they took up their seats… It was like realizing for the first time that you were a _grown up_. Not an adult; you'd been claiming to be an adult for years now. But as a grown up… You were a _professor_. At _Hogwarts_. And you were about to be responsible for the education, discipline, nurturing, and protection of _hundreds_ of young minds.

And there was nothing quite like having an existential crisis in front a hall full of teenagers.

You weren't sure if it was good or bad that you weren't sitting next to Severus at the moment. Had you been, you might have reached for his hand under the table and clutched it for dear life. Or at least confided to him that you were freaking out, and take comfort in the familiar embrace of his cold admonishment. But as it was, _he_ was situated between Dumbledore and Sprout at the center of the table, and _you_ were seated at the far end with only empty chairs for company. You had been one of the last to arrive into the Great Hall, so seating had been limited. And the chair between yourself and Professor Vector was nearly two times the size of a normal one, and Hagrid had not yet arrived in order to occupy it. This left you sitting awkwardly by yourself, and it didn't help you feel any less lonely, despite being in a hall full of people. You couldn't even manage to catch Severus' eye, not that you would have known what to do if you had.

The general atmosphere of the Great Hall did not help to ease your nerves. Hovering low over the house tables, the enchanted ceiling reflected the tumultuous weather outside with dark, heavy clouds occasionally glowing with lightning, and a cascade of rainfall that seemed to disappear just above where the candle floated. God, the poor first years crossing the lake! Did they still make them do that, if it was raining? No wonder Hagrid wasn't here yet. Even the students who had already arrived looked impossibly morose for the occasion, most of them sodden with rain, a few of the older students and prefects casting Hot-Air Charms on their housemates to try and stave off the chill. At first you wondered if their dour mood had anything to do with getting caught in the storm. But then you remembered the Dementors, and you felt anxious all over again.

You wanted to leave. Your legs were bouncing anxiously under the staff table with the pent up impulse to flee. Now that all of the students had settled in, you knew that McGonagall would be arriving any minute with the first years to begin the Sorting Ceremony. Surely it wasn't mandatory to be present for that, right? You weren't a head of house or anything. You didn't even _teach_ first years. You didn't want to leave all together, mind. You just needed a moment, a breath of fresh air, a bit of silence to gather your thoughts and convince yourself that you were worthy of being here and that-

The scrape of the chair next to you being pulled out made you physically jump, though you managed not to yelp out loud. It wasn't Hagrid's chair though, but the other one. You peered up, ashen faced from your fretting, as a tired looking man in tattered, dated robes settled down beside you.

And you recognized him instantly. Not because you'd ever met him, or even seen him before, but because you'd spent enough time around werewolves to be able to identify one on sight. From the grey streaking his light brown hair, to the pale red scars running across his face. You would wager there were raised, puckered marks on his hands and fingers. And somewhere on his body, there would be the remnants of a bite wound. A little color returned to your face then as you glanced down at your empty plate. It certainly wasn't your place to speculate where _that_ particular scar might be. Though you knew Desma's had been on the back of her thigh…

"Is it alright that I sat here?"

You jumped again, startled out of your rather shameful musings as you turned to face your fellow professor. He was offering a sort of tight, apprehensive smile, like he was reluctant to know the answer to his own question. Which was a rather confusing question, now that you thought about it. There weren't any other seats available at the staff table, so it wasn't like he could have sat somewhere else. "Pardon?" you asked shakily, pushing your hair behind you ear, hoping he would think that maybe you just hadn't heard him correctly.

But his sad smile only seemed to grow more melancholy, as if he'd resigned himself accepting some great disappointment. "You seemed a little apprehensive," he sighed, like he'd said these words a thousand times before. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable." He spoke calmly, deliberately, as if trying to placate a frightened child that was about to flee, which only deepened your confusion, seeing as you were neither of those things. He lifted his green eyes to scan over the rest of the staff table like he was looking for something. "I could perhaps swap with someone, if you'd rather not share a table with a-"

You gasped, the pieces of the puzzle sliding together in rapid succession, and before you could even think about what you were doing, your hand had shot out to take his. Your fingers molded over the back of his hand (_you could feel the scars on his palms with your fingertips_) and you squeezed firmly in an attempt to convey that you wanted him to stay right where he was. "I am _so_ sorry," you bemoaned, wincing as he stared down at your joined hands in surprise. You made no move to release him, though you did loosen your grip, just a little. He had to know that you weren't afraid…

And the only acceptable course of action was to tell the truth. "I'm _anxious_ because it's suddenly all become very real to me that I'm about to be a teacher at the most prestigious school of magic in the wizarding world," you explained, gazing out over the hall. The doors had opened again, revealing the first years being led by… Flitwick? You didn't have time to think too hard about that, before returning your attention to your companion. He was still looking confused, so you offered an apologetic smile and squeezed his hand reassuringly one last time. "It has absolutely nothing to do with you being a…" you glanced around shiftily, making sure you weren't being overheard, before cupping a hand against your mouth and leaning in to whisper, "A Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I've heard they're cursed, but I don't believe the rumors."

There was a moment of stunned silence, before a wide, amused grin spread over his face, and your breath caught in your throat. He looked about ten years younger all of a sudden, and you couldn't help but smile timidly in return. You felt an odd little twitch in your chest, which you knew was bad news. Because he reminded you so much of Desma that it made your heart ache. The brown hair peppered with grey, the lines around unnaturally bright eyes, the scars marring strong hands… The hand you were still holding, you realized, and you felt heat crawl up your cheeks as you gently pulled away. He was still smiling as you both turned your attention towards the proceedings; Professor Flitwick had just levitated the stool and Sorting Hat out to the center platform, and you figured you at least had to pay attention while the Hat sang its song.

You could truly empathize with the terrified looks of the first years as the sorting began. Though, to be honest, you had been much less nervous about being sorted as an 11 year old, than you were now as an adult getting ready to start a new career. God, you wish you still had the misguided confidence that you'd had as a pre-teen. Nothing and no one could intimidate you. Every day had been an adventure, because everything was so bright and magical and new. Now you were… jaded, you guessed. And that was sort of a depressing thought...

_Pull yourself together, woman. _

You concentrated on the sorting, clapping enthusiastically whenever a new Hufflepuff was born, trying to remember names and faces, even though you knew you wouldn't be teaching any of them. Because this job wasn't _just_ about the teaching bit. You glanced toward the center of the table, but Severus appeared to be deeply invested in the sorting as well, which was understandable, seeing as he was the head of Slytherin. But the deep scowl marring his face seemed a little more excessive than usual…

Hagrid arrived about half way through the ceremony, looking rather like a shaggy dog who had just gotten a fresh blow-dry (_had he tried to cast the Hot-Air Charm himself? _On_ himself?_). He was _also_ looking just as nervous as the first years, and you intimately understood the struggle. You realized this whole end of the table had become the newbie section, and you were dreading the inevitable moment when Dumbledore would be announcing your appointments. You held out hope that both you and Hagrid would be sufficiently inebriated before it happened…

But of course, when were you ever allowed to have the things you wanted in life?

As Flitwick carried off the hat and stool, and McGonagall apparently appeared out of nowhere to take her seat beside the Headmaster, Dumbledore rose from his chair, his arms outstretched as he greeted the student body to another year at Hogwarts. This was usually the part where he would make a pun, claiming to have a few things to say, before uttering a few nonsense words and beginning the feast. But he was suddenly looking quite solemn, and your heart sank as he suggested getting the announcements out of the way now, as some of them were quite serious, and he wanted the student's full attention.

Which was smart, you reasoned. He certainly wasn't wrong; the Dementors _were_ a serious issue, and you felt your skin crawl at the confirmation that they would be stationed at every entrance on the grounds. You honestly weren't sure you'd even _want_ to visit Hogsmeade, if that were the case… But as Dumbledore continued on about the Dementors and their inability to be fooled or even reasoned with, you noticed that he was decidedly _not_ saying anything about Sirius Black. And you felt a sick little squirm in your stomach as you considered that… perhaps it was _not_ Black, who Dumbledore saw as the greater threat to the school. There was a pregnant pause after the Headmaster finished giving his warning, allowing his words to settle into the minds of his students. The weight of the situation was evident in the silence that prevailed in a room full of teenagers.

"On a happier note," Dumbledore announced genially, breaking the tension with his more customary, kindly voice. "I am pleased to welcome three new teachers to our ranks this year."

Oh _god_. Already? Right now? Did he have to do this _right now_? Why couldn't he save the less important announcements until _after_ the feast? You twisted your hands into your copper skirt under the table as your heart leapt into your throat. A wave of dizziness washed over you as you leaned back into your chair, and you were only slightly comforted to see that Hagrid looked just as tense as you felt. The only one of you who appeared capable of remaining calm was-

"First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly consented to fill the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

You forced your hands out from under the table in order to join the smattering of applause that broke out among the house tables. You gazed up at Lupin as he stood, tipping his head in a cordial little bow, and you silently cursed him for setting the precedent, because that meant you would have to stand now, too. You could see a group of Gryffindor's who were clapping particularly enthusiastically for the new Defense professor, and you couldn't help wondering if it was an intentional dig towards Severus. Even when you were a student, everyone knew he wanted the position for himself. Which… honestly baffled you, given how passionate he actually was about potions. You glanced back at the head of the table once again, and your clapping stuttered to a halt at the look of deepest loathing that was being hurled in your direction.

Not at you. But at Lupin. And your already throbbing heart pounded faster, because that was… alarming. He'd gotten so angry at the mere mention of the new professors name at the Hog's Head, too. This wasn't just disappointment over missing out on the Defense job again. This felt… personal. You just desperately hoped that it wasn't because Lupin was a…

"As to our second new appointment," Dumbledore continued on, explaining how Professor Kettleburn had taken his leave at the end of last year. Oh, thank god. Hagrid was next. Lupin took his seat beside you, turning in your direction to offer you a reassuring smile. Which marginally soothed you as you tried to return it, but Lupin's gaze had been pulled away from yours… and his smile immediately faltered as he apparently glimpsed Severus' glare from across the table.

"I am delighted to say that his place will be filled by one other than Rubeus Hagrid-"

The sudden uproar of applause was staggering compared to the enthusiasm the students had shown for Lupin, which was to say, not much at all. Hagrid, looking like a deer caught in headlights, stumbled up to his feet, knocking his chair back while simultaneously causing the actual table to skid forward by half a foot as he bumped it with his knees. His cheeks were beet red as he stared bashfully down at his hands, and you leaned forward in order to catch his eye, offering a wide grin as you joined in on the applause. And though it was hidden under his mass of black beard, you could tell that he was smiling back. Hagrid was such a pure soul, he honestly deserved this. And you were pleased to see that he was just as popular with the students now as he had been when back when you were a girl. As Hagrid settled back into his chair, he pulled the table back to rights, before gathering up an edge of the table cloth to wipe his streaming eyes. You reached over to pat his hand sympathetically, and he gave a great big sniffle as he nodded that he was alright.

"And finally," Dumbledore pressed on, the applause for Hagrid still clamoring as a few students from the Gryffindor table persisted. Which was perhaps to your benefit; maybe no one would notice when the Headmaster announced your name and you inevitably peed your pants. Skirt. Whatever. Your stomach lurched as Dumbledore waited for silence instead, and you felt like you were about to swoon. "Taking on the role Muggle Studies teacher, will be returning Hufflepuff Alumni, Gwendolyn Goode."

You were momentarily stunned as another boisterous round of applause burst forth from the house tables at the announcement of your name. That… had been the last reaction you were expecting. You'd anticipated to be more or less ignored, much as Lupin had been, if you were being honest. As you dazedly pushed yourself to your feet, you could see that the majority of the cheering was coming from the Hufflepuff table, where you saw a multitude of familiar faces. They had been much younger faces when you'd last seen them, but you _had_ seen them before. They'd been first, second and third years when you'd graduated. Now they were all in their fifth, sixth and seventh. And the applause wasn't limited to Hufflepuff, but a fair amount of Gryffindor's and Ravenclaw's as well. And they were all clapping riotously for _you_.

You felt a massive hand pat against your back, and you turned to see Hagrid beaming over at you. You returned his smile, before turning it back towards the students, forgoing the prim little bow you had been planning and instead raising both hands to wave enthusiastically. The gesture was met with several shouts and piercing whistles (_Were those the Weasley twins? You were shocked they hadn't been expelled yet, and you'd only known them for a year._) and you felt tears spring to your eyes as you crumpled bonelessly back into your chair. Hagrid held out an edge of table cloth to you, and you laughed through your tears as you took him up on the offer.

As you turned your head to dab your eyes, you saw that the students hadn't been the only ones clapping. Sprout was absolutely beaming at you as she held her clasped hands to her bosom, simply exuding pride and delight for her former student. Dumbledore was smiling kindly as he waited for the last of the applause to die down. And Severus… wasn't looking at you at all. Indeed, his eyes were downcast, as if intentionally avoiding anyone's gaze. And you hoped it was because he was suppressing a smile for you.

"Well, I think that's everything of importance," Dumbledore decided finally. He gazed out over the Great Hall, before clapping his hands and announcing, "Let the feast begin!"

You sighed with relief as the platters and goblets suddenly filled with food and drink. Not because you were particularly hungry; indeed you still felt a bit queasy after all of that. But the pleasant buzz of conversation and excitement filled the room again, and this time the background hum wasn't a precursor to dread, but the sound of normalcy. You filled your plate with salad and a chicken leg, but it was mostly for show; you were considerably more interested in the goblet of wine that Hagrid had filled for you. You were taking a soothing sip from it when you saw Lupin lean toward you out of the corner of your eye.

"You're rather popular, for being a new teacher."

You blushed deeply, your face heating up with shame and embarrassment, remembering how much applause _he_ had gotten compared to yours. You held your goblet in your lap and smiled sheepishly over at him as he ravaged his plate of chicken and roasted potatoes. "I really wasn't expecting all that," you promised, glancing back to the Hufflepuff table. You may have felt bad, but you were unable to contain your smile despite yourself. "I'd forgotten that I actually went to school with a lot of them."

Lupin smiled genially, shaking his head to indicate that he wasn't being resentful; he was just interested. "Indeed," he intoned, following your line of sight to the house tables as well. "Dumbledore told me all about you, of course. But I'm ashamed that I didn't quite put it together when you mentioned being a new teacher as well." You tilted your head curiously; put what together? You weren't exactly surprised that Dumbledore had told him about you; he'd certainly told you all about Lupin. But it wasn't like you expected Lupin to recognize you on sight. Not the way you had been able to recognize him, at least. "That is," Lupin continued, looking a little flustered. "I didn't realize that _you_ were the Gwendolyn Goode he'd told me about. Frankly, with all you've accomplished, I didn't expect you to be quite so young."

Your face was _already_ red. Why'd he have to go and point out something like that? You hid your embarrassment in your wineglass, before muttering, "I'm choosing to take that as a compliment."

Lupin laughed, and it was so genuine that it left you taken aback, which you realized was just absurd. Geeze… You'd gotten so used to being around men who _hid_ their emotions that it was… refreshing, to see someone be so open and honest. "My apologies," he insisted, that affable smile still on his lips as he dabbed them with a napkin. He'd already finished his first plate, and was loading up a second. "But yes, you _should_ take it as a compliment. What you've achieved so soon out of Hogwarts is really quite remarkable."

He paused then, staring down at his plate of food, as if the mere reality of helping himself to seconds was a novelty. It probably was. "I owe you a great deal, you know," Lupin commented softly, tilting his head to face you earnestly. "You're entirely the reason why I have gainful employment for the first time… well ever, really. Not only did you develop the potion that will help ease my… affliction. But I've also been told that you'll be the one to… help me through my..."

You nodded in validation of his lingering words. You weren't going to make him say it out loud. But still, his words continued to make you blush, and you felt like you had to keep drinking wine in order to give your cheeks an excuse. "I'm not the _only_ one who developed it…" you tried to clarify, playing off your contributions in the name of modesty. But Lupin wasn't having it.

"That's not what I heard," he scoffed as he started cutting up his third piece of chicken. "Dumbledore seems to have it on good authority that you had a great deal of influence on the potion, and you should have been the one to receive that Order of Merlin."

Dumbledore sure talked a lot. But you also know that Dumbledore hadn't gleaned that information himself. You placed your wineglass back on the table, using the motion to shift in your seat and peer down towards the head of the table. Severus appeared to be in deep conversation with the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress, and you smiled ruefully. "That good authority has a rather high opinion of himself," you claimed, forgoing any sense of decorum while McGonagall wasn't looking and simply picking up your chicken leg with your fingers. Term hadn't even started and you were already feeling rebellious. "But thank you all the same."

Lupin arched a light brow at your lack of etiquette, but smiled earnestly again as he set down his fork and knife in order to join you. "I should be thanking _you_" he insisted. "Not just for your work on the potion but…" He paused thoughtfully for a moment, and you were surprised to find color suffusing his scarred cheeks. You put down your chicken and wiped your hands with your napkin, giving him your full attention. "Well you didn't have to agree… to be my nursemaid, as it were."

You felt your heart ache as he said it, and you felt guilty for ever thinking that you were being used in this situation. Because you _would_ have volunteered, even if Dumbledore hadn't tasked you with it in the first place. "Remus," you spoke his first name decisively, and that certainly got his attention. He turned to face you, and you returned his sincerity with an open smile of your own. "I'm _happy_ to do it," you avowed, reaching across to him and settling your hand against his upper arm. He started down at where your hand rested, and you felt your heart ache again. "You remind me so much of my…" you hesitated, swallowing hard as you thought of Desma. _They were so much alike_… "Of one of my volunteers, back in Albania," you finished, knowing you hadn't really saved it. But you could only be so honest with someone you'd just met, and comparing your new colleague with you ex probably wasn't a cute look. "I've spent the last three years of my life treating and caring for people like you. It's only natural that I would continue to do so."

Lupin stared at you for several long moments, and it might have made you uncomfortable, where you not staring back just as intensely. You needed him to understand that this wasn't for show, and that you were being sincere. (_You got an odd sense of déjà vu_.) But after a beat, his penetrating gaze morphed into a sort of sad, but pleased smile. You returned it. "The fact that you didn't even hesitate to call us 'people' speaks volumes to your character," he sighed. And you nodded, knowing that this admission was not something you were supposed to be proud of, because it was something that shouldn't even be _necessary_. You weren't expecting a pat on the back for being a decent human being. His gaze was pulled away from yours though, as he passed a glance over the head of the table, his smile dropping. "Some would gladly categorize us as less than human."

You stiffened slightly, your hand still resting lightly on Lupin's arm as you followed his gaze. Severus was scowling out across the great hall… and you got the unnerving impression that he had just quickly averted his gaze from whatever had _caused_ that scowl in the first place. You felt your stomach lurch, and you decide you were most certainly done eating for the evening.

(_You didn't want to believe… But he'd gotten so _angry_…)_

"I have every intention of changing those sorts of opinions," you stated assertively, your attention back on Remus as you gave his arm a gentle squeeze. He was wiping his hands on how own napkin as he smiled down at you. It was that sad smile again that made your heart ache, but it merely strengthened your conviction.

"I truly hope that you do."


	19. Chapter 19 - Light Year Love Pt 2

This is a re-upload. A lovely guest review brought to my attention that the last chapter file got corrupted, and whole sentances were missing from the chapter. So let's try this again lol.

This chapter is basically a big thank you to my readers, as it features OC's from 10 of my followers over on tumblr. It's pretty self indulgent, but I hope you still enjoy it :"3 A list of credits for said OC's will be at the end of the chapter!

-0-

Thirteen students.

Three Gryffindor's, three Hufflepuff's, FIVE Ravenclaw's, and (_to your great surprise_) two Slytherin's. You had been expecting more Hufflepuff's, but honestly hadn't expected _any_ Slytherin's. Maybe the climate had changed since you were a student, but it was hard to imagine a world where _any_ Slytherin was interested in the day to day lives of the muggle population. You realized you were being judgmental, which wasn't a good thing on your first day of class, but… seriously? Two _Slytherin's_?

You were waiting (_hiding_) in your office. You didn't want to enter until the bells had chimed, and were watching your first ever students settle into their muggle style desks. Some clearly seemed excited to be there; taking seats towards the front, organizing their quills and parchment, throwing curious glances around the room at the assorted 'artefacts' that lined the walls. Others seemed… less enthused. Sitting towards the back, already gazing up at the analog clock on the far wall above the blackboard. You hoped it was to figure out how long before the class started, and not how long before it _ended_.

They were all third years, which you were grateful for; it would be a first class, a first lesson, with zero expectations. You were slightly dreading taking over the older level classes, trying to gauge where Charity Burbage had left off, fearing you were going to teach them crap they already knew, or blast way ahead and leave them with gaps in their education. At least with third years, you could take comfort in the fact that they were blank slates, and you felt an odd little thrill at the idea of watching this group of students grow up in your class. These kids were going to be _your_ kids. Assuming they didn't drop out of course…

_One thing at a time, Gwen._

The bells chimed, and that was your cue to finally exit your office. You took a deep breath, holding it for a count of three before letting it out. It's go time. You adjusted your tie-dyed robes (_under which you wore long sleeves and pants, thank you very much, Minerva_), ruffled your fingers through your hair, before finally pulling open your office door and striding confidently into the first day of the rest of your life.

"Good morning, class!" you announced cheerfully, offering what you hoped was a sunny and definitely not terrified smile as you clicked the office door shut behind you. Several students looked over their shoulders to greet you, some smiling excitedly, other looking bored, and still others looking utterly confused by you(_r outfit_), before offering a smattering of 'good mornings' with mixed levels of enthusiasm. Ah yes, good, things were already going well. You kept up your smile as you briskly walked the length of the room, before situating yourself between the blackboard and instructor's desk and turning to face your first class. It was much easier to see who was eager to be here, and who couldn't care less, from this vantage point. Superb.

"My name is Profess-"

Before you could even get your second sentence of the day out, you were interrupted by the sudden clang of the classroom door being thrown open. You were gratified that you hadn't been the only person in the room to jump with fright, and almost everyone twisted around in their seats to see who had barged in. Heart pounding from the shock, you watched, bewildered, as a brown haired, green eyed Slytherin boy came swaggering into the room, looking entirely too pleased, for reasons you couldn't even begin to divine. He didn't apologize for interrupting. He simply strode right up to your desk, holding out a slip of parchment with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

You blinked stupidly for a moment, before taking the parchment from his outstretched hand and unfolding it carefully. Your heart started thudding in double time as you recognized familiar cramped, spidery handwriting, and your brow furrowed as you began to read.

_Professor Goode,_

_Mr. Keelan Drake appears to have taken a sudden interest in Muggle Studies between last night's feast and this morning. Your class does fit into his schedule, and I know there is space available, so I was unable to deny him the opportunity. I warn you that he isn't a particularly passionate student, academically speaking, and I'm unsure of his true intentions for wanting to take your class. However, the choice to admit him is yours._

_-Professor Snape_

You pouted slightly at the return to professional titles, but you figured there were certain images to uphold now. You looked from the note to Keelan, and felt heat pick up in your cheeks. You realized suddenly that his grin was not actually smug… but smitten. Hopeful eyes and a lazy grin, his bottom lip actually caught between his teeth. Perhaps the boy's intentions weren't obvious to Snape, but they sure were obvious to _you_.

"Take a seat, Keelan," you acquiesced, perhaps against your better judgement. You had to hold in a snort as you saw him pump his fist in the air, before turning around to join his fellow Slytherin's at the back of the classroom, both of whom were eyeing him like he was absolutely bonkers. You opened up the narrow center drawer of the instructor's desk before dropping Severus' note within and snapping it shut.

"As I was saying," you continued, trying to shake off the interruption with another smile. "My name is Professor Goode, and welcome to Muggle Studies." Not that you'd had any grand speech planned, but you'd certainly lost your momentum with that interruption. The Slytherin's were whispering from the back of the rows, and a couple of Ravenclaw girls were shooting them nasty looks over their shoulders. You cleared your throat, moving around the desk to stand in front of it instead, leaning you backside against it.

"Now," you intoned a little louder, gaining back a bit of the attention you had lost. Geeze, you'd never considered this part of the job. Severus had the ability to command a classroom with the venerable power of his sheer disdain. You feared you were going to have to _work_ for your respect. "You're all third years, correct?"

There was a mumble of agreement across the classroom, any earlier enthusiasm seemingly sapped. But you nodded at their compliance and clapped your hands together once, an innocent gesture of gratification that did its job by getting them all to look at you again. "Excellent!" you exclaimed, looking disproportionately excited about this. "That means you've never taken this course before. Which is fortunate, because I've never taught it before."

Oh thank god, some of them actually laughed. You felt a wash of relief at the sounds of snorts and suppressed giggles that erupted from the center of the room. There were a few dissenting eye rolls of course, and a Gryffindor girl with bushy brown hair sitting in the front row looked vaguely scandalized, but you could deal with that. You could prove yourself.

"Some of you may be wondering about my credentials, and to be fair, I tend to wonder about them myself. Allow me to assuage your fears. Or perhaps exacerbate them." More quiet chuckles, more utter mortification. You resumed your pleasant smile as you pushed yourself up off of the floor to sit on the desk, crossing your legs at the ankles as you leaned forward. "I'm reportedly a half-blood, however I grew up entirely muggle, raised by my muggle mum, until I was 11. Obviously. I started attending school here at Hogwarts in 1983, where I was sorted into Hufflepu-"

One eccentric looking boy with auburn hair and bright green eyes burst into sudden rancorous applause, and he was soon joined by the other two students, a tan skinned brunette girl, and a pale boy with sandy blonde hair. They were the only Hufflepuff's in the class, and you felt an odd mix of pride and dubiousness, unsure if you were being made fun of, or if they were being genuine. But then you remembered that they were _Hufflepuff's_, so of course they were being genuine. You couldn't help yourself; you laughed, pleased that most of the other students looked amused with the antics as well, rather than annoyed. Well… most of them anyway. The Gryffindor girl in front still appeared incredibly _un_amused.

"_Thank you_," you insisted, motioning for them to sit back down, and your face was actually starting to ache from smiling, but in a pleasant way. Like you weren't expecting things to go this well. You continued on, bolstered by having such a receptive group of kids. "I was sorted into Hufflepuff, and graduated three years ago with my Masters in Potions." A few raised eyebrows. You weren't surprised. Such a statement raised a lot of questions, you were sure, so you pressed on in an attempt to answer them preemptively. "Potions didn't work out so hot, unfortunately. But Dumbledore, doting philanthropist that he is, sought me out and asked me to teach Muggle Studies, and I accepted, seeing as I have 21 years' experience in the field." Another smattering of snorts and giggles, along with a few awed looks, as well as a few skeptical ones. You couldn't blame them. You _hadn't _graduated with a Masters in Muggle Studies, after all.

"Now that I'm done talking about myself," you gazed out over the diverse array of faces and houses that sat before you. "It's time for me to get to know _you_." You slid off of the desk, your boot heels clacking on the floor as you straightened up. "Show of hands, how many of you were raised muggle, or have a muggle parent?" You were expecting maybe one or two students. You knew there would be a certain amount of interest, even from muggle-born students. But you had to control yourself from physically balking as you watched _six_ students lift their hands, nearly half of the class. Even more interesting than the sheer number, was the fact that at least two of them were Slytherin's. They just kept surprising you today.

But… your restraint could not control your sass. "So… Wow, like, what…" You drew your eyebrows together, shaking your head minutely. "What are you even _doing_ here?"

There was another eruption of laughter, and while some of the students with their hands raised looked sheepish, most of them were actually the ones laughing. You smiled sympathetically at those who were less than satisfied with your joke, and lifted both hands pacifyingly to get everyone to settle down. "Alright, okay. So…"

You paused, crossing your arms over your chest, before lifting one hand to tap your fingers against your lips. "How many of you are taking this class because you're genuinely interested in learning about the wizarding perspective on muggles?" More hands shot into the air this time, and some quite eagerly at that. More than half the class sat with their hands up; a promising statistic. But that, of course, left those whose hands were conspicuously on their desks. Still, you nodded, satisfied.

"Good! I'm glad to see that. I hope I don't disappoint you. Finally…" You took a dramatic pause, before arching one eyebrow in a fine imitation of a far more menacing professor. "How many of you are here because Muggle Studies is a soft option?"

There was a pause, stunned faces looking up at you, before glancing around to see if anyone was taking the bait. There was no way that there weren't at least a few kids that were here because Muggle Studies was an undemanding class. You kept your brow arched as you waited for someone to fess up, and after a few seconds, they finally did. Two of the Slytherin's (_one of them being the boy who had just arrived, Keelan_), and much to your dismay, the only Hufflepuff girl. There was some nervous laughter, and some dirty looks being thrown toward the back of the class, but you just smiled again, actually laughed, because you were pleased that they were at least opening up to you.

"Thank you for your honesty," you capitulated, leaning back against your desk again as you watched them all lower their hands again. "I hope you end up enjoying the class despite that. To give you an idea of what you're all in for, in this first year of the course, we're going to be covering the expansive answer to the age old question: how do Muggles get by without magic?" Eye rolls from some of the muggle raised students. You could practically hear them collectively think the word '_electricity'_, and you grinned as you continued. "Now, Muggle Studies does go all the way up to N.E.W.T. level, so over the course of your education, should you choose to continue with the class, we'll cover everything from the daily lives of muggles, to their history and its direct effects on the wizarding world, as well as some more theoretical ideas, such as: why does muggle technology continue to steadily advance, while wizards are basically still in the dark ages?"

That caught some of their attentions. Creased eyebrows, as if the thought of muggles being advanced in any capacity was a foreign concept, to near comical wonderment as if they were considering this idea for the very first time. Some of them were already taking _notes_. You had to reel them back in.

"That's a lot to chew on, I know," you leveled, smiling sympathetically at some of the more bewildered faces. "But don't worry about it today. Like I said, today I just want to get to know _you_. We're gonna be stuck with each other for the next ten months, possibly even the next five years, and I would prefer this to be a class you actually look forward to, instead of one you just have to go to. Or worse, one that you dread."

That seemed like something of a foreign concept to them as well. Which… you could understand. Even when you had been a student, you didn't recall having a Professor that took a special interest in actually getting to know all of their students. Heads of Houses made the effort, of course, and one could always get to know a Professor on a more personal level. But you always wondered if, say, maybe McGonagall would have been a little more understanding if she'd just taken an interest in her students as like, actual people, instead of treating them all like vessels made for receiving knowledge.

You were teaching Muggle Studies. So you were going to teach like a Muggle. When you had been little, long before ever knowing you were a witch, you would have teachers that made it their main mission to actually get to know their _entire_ class on an individual level. Of course, they typically had the advantage of teaching the same group of kids every single day, for several hours a day. But you were determined to make the same effort for each of your classes. You knew not all of them would be receptive, and that was okay. But what was important to you, was making it known that you could be trusted. That you could provide guidance, not just in this class, but outside of it as well. You had been fortunate, lucky even, to have found a mentor, someone you could trust and rely on, while you had been a student, because without that, you surely would have fallen apart with worry and doubt. But not everyone had been afforded that same luxury. And that… was a shame, really.

"I'm not going to make you all stand up and state a fun random fact about yourself," you promised, returning back to the space between the blackboard and the desk. You opened one of the side drawers, retrieving the third year roster and smoothing out the list. "But when I call your name, raise your hand so I know who you are, and if you feel so inclined, tell me why you decided to take Muggle Studies." There had been thirteen names on it yesterday, but a fourteenth had magically appeared, surely within the last ten minutes. Typical.

You smiled a little as you moved back around to the front and sat yourself up on the desk again. "And yes, it's totally okay if your answer is because it's an easy A. It won't hurt my feelings." More nervous giggles, more exasperated eye rolls. But at least everyone seemed to be engaged, which was all you could hope for at this point. Peering down at your roster, you read off the first name at the top of the list. "Lucas Amari?"

"Here!"

Lucas was a scrawny Ravenclaw boy with dark hair, dark skin, and a really unfortunate combination of acne and glasses. He looked rather anxious as he held his hand up in the air, and you smiled in a way you hoped was soothing, in an attempt to calm his nerves. He kept his hand up as he spoke, voice stuck in the awkward space between mature and prepubescent, all halting and squeaky. "I come from an all wizarding family, and I, uh. I was encouraged to, take the class so that I, uh. So that I could get to know my, my muggle-born friends better…" He kept glancing from you, to the Gryffindor girl with the fizzy brown hair that was sitting right in front of him, and you thought yes, he certainly _did_ want to get to know a certain muggle-born friend better.

"A noble cause, Lucas. Thanks." It took him a few moments to realize he could put his hand back down, and you had to really concentrate to keep from giggling. Poor kid. You were rooting for him, though. Next on the list… "Neptune Anderson." Cool name…

For a pretty cool kid. One of the Slytherin's in the back, with unruly black hair and an olive complexion, raised his hand casually. He was unreasonably handsome for a thirteen year old, clearly having matured a bit sooner than, say, Lucas. You also couldn't help but notice the glint of silver under his nostrils from a poorly concealed septum piercing. _Much_ too cool for school. Had his parents allowed that or had he done it himself? "My dad's an astronomy teacher at University of Manchester," he explained easily, and you blinked in surprise. That was interesting. Explained his name, possibly. "I just thought it would be cool, to see things from both sides, since like… I guess a lot of muggle and wizard stuff actually overlaps? Like astronomy?"

You beamed, because that was exactly the sort of thing you wanted to hear. "You're absolutely right." You glanced around at a few confused faces. "Muggles study astronomy just like we do, just in a _much_ different way. Like, by actually sending people into space, for starters." You chuckled at a few of the alarmed looks this news received. Did pure-blood kids really not know about space shuttles? "That's something we'll explore in this class; how we actually have a lot to _learn_ from muggle science. Thank you, Neptune." He shrugged a dismissive shoulder, but you could see his tiny, pleased grin even from the back of the classroom.

"Next is… oh…" You frowned sheepishly as you squinted down at the next name on the register. "Lou… Looowv… Luuurv…"

"Lou-ve," cut in a copper haired Ravenclaw in the front row. She was pale and petite, and despite your struggle to pronounce her name, she was smiling understandingly. "Louve Campbell."

You had the decency to look properly abashed, returning her smile gratefully. "Louve Campbell," you repeated, and she nodded reassuringly.

You only smiled wider as she held her hand up obediently and said "Present," before lowering her hand back into her lap. "I know you said muggle studies is a soft option but I'm here because I was looking for a challenge. I _grew up_ with magical creatures and divination, but I don't really know _anything_ about muggles." She wasn't ashamed by her ignorance; just factual. And you could appreciate that. You'd certainly felt the same way, coming from a completely muggle background and knowing next to nothing about _real_ magic.

"Well, I think we'll be able to change that. Thanks, Louve." The girl smiled again as you correctly pronounced her name, looking quite contented that she'd made a good impression.

You referred to the list again. Ah, another interesting name, but one you were sure you'd be able to pronounce this time. "Sun-jung Dove?"

"Meee!" The Gryffindor girl was practically jumping from her desk with excitement, her arm high in the air as she leaned against her desk. She wore her long black hair in pigtails, but despite the girlish style, she struck you as rather tom-boyish, with a surprisingly roguish grin and a prominent scar on her left cheek. "I want to become an Auror! I know Muggle Studies is not required but I thought it would be smart to take it, since Auror's have to protect muggles from dark wizards as well!" You wondered if this girl always spoke in exclamation points. But her proclamation made you smile all the same. She reminded you a little bit of Lawrence if that regard, though you were certain that _he_ hadn't taken Muggle Studies.

"That's very prudent of you," you commented, and the girl continued to grin as she sat back down. "I have a friend who's on his way to becoming an Auror. He was _not_ so sensible, but I think it's a smart move, especially if you're going to be working for the Ministry."

"That's what Percy said!" Sun-jung exclaimed with a giggle, and you blinked, momentarily stunned. Percy… _Weasley_? Oh god, no, was _he_ going to be taking your class? You had known his brothers Bill (_a year ahead of you_) and Charlie (_a year behind_) fairly well. Well… you knew _Bill_ fairly well, as you'd had a brief tryst with the Head Boy in your sixth year. But… that was neither here nor there. The point was that you also knew Percy, and you remembered that he was insufferable.

But that was a problem for another day (_Friday, to be exact, when you would be teaching seventh years_). For now, you still had all of these third years to get through. You consulted your roll call for the next student before calling out "Hermione Granger?"

She shot her hand up so quickly, you wondered if it was something she regularly practiced in the mirror. "Present!" It was the Gryffindor girl with the wild brown hair who had been giving you dubious looks all class, as if she were simply appalled by your lack of credentials. As she lowered her hand and sat up primly, you had a feeling that she was going to be a handful. "I wanted to take Muggle Studies because, even though both of my parents are muggle, I think it will be fascinating to study them from a wizarding standpoint."

There were some muffled groans and eye-rolls from the rows behind Hermione. Lucas Amari whipped around, doing his best to try and glare down whoever had done it. Though Hermione's cheeks were quite pink, she maintained her calm and determined features, as if she were used to this sort of treatment. Which… made you feel bad, for thinking she would be trouble. There was nothing worse than being made fun of just because you were curious. So, you smiled gently to her, nodding encouragingly. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to see something you're already familiar with from a new point of view, Hermione. More wizards and witches could stand to adopt that sort of mentality." Hermione bit her bottom lip, dropping her gaze down at her folded hands, and you got the feeling that she couldn't agree more.

You passed a warning glance over the rest of the class who had deigned fit to groan at the girl, and you were rewarded with a few gazes averted in shame. Content that at least some of them had been thoroughly chastised, you moved on to the next name on the list. "Dakota Halton."

"Here." The Ravenclaw student had barely raised their hand up over their head, and you actually had to crane your neck to get a good look at them from where they sat behind Lucas. Thick glasses, a mop of brown hair, and a round face that was still holding on to baby-fat, Dakota had a nervous, overworked air about them. Which was alarming since it was literally the first class of the first day. They glanced up and down at you sporadically, as if unable or unwilling to maintain eye contact. "You said we only had to answer if we felt inclined…" They trailed off, eyes finally staying planted on their desk.

You maintained your kind smile, and nodded in reply. "I did indeed say that," you agreed, before turning your attention back down to the list. Making your kids uncomfortable was the last thing you wanted, so if they wanted space, you would provide it. Though you _would_ be keeping an eye on Dakota, you thought to yourself, surreptitiously smudging your thumb against the paper next to their name, leaving a magical imprint of a star beside it. You had to suppress a grin, pleased that you had managed to pull off a bit of wandless magic for the first time in months. "Marina Hart?"

"Right here!" Another Ravenclaw girl sitting in the front row, with brown skin and a sleek bob haircut, lifted her hand briefly, before jerking her thumb to the side. "And I'm in the same boat as Hermione. Another muggle-born just wanting to see things different." Marina looked like she had been buzzing to say this from the moment the other students had scoffed at Hermione. Hermione, for her part, looked a little shocked, another blush climbing up her cheeks. You wondered if they were friends outside of this class. If not, you hoped you'd just witnessed the formation of a new friendship.

"I'm glad to hear it, Marina. I hope the class is enlightening for you both." You winked at Marina, a more intimate 'thank you' for having Hermione's back, and the girls grey eyes lit up bright, a stunning contrast to her dark skin. You were about half way through the roster now, and were pleased to see that everyone still seemed fairly engaged. "Leigh Hawkins," you called out next, and saw a pale hand climb up in the back of the class.

Another Slytherin, with straight, dark blonde hair that hung around her shoulders, and a curiously blank expression on her narrow face that could be read as either being bored or laid back. She looked incredibly tall for her age, her legs stretched out into the aisle from under the rather cramped desk. You could relate to that. She used the hand she'd had in the air to casually push a swath of hair behind her ear, before deadpanning, "I'm just here because I heard you have a record player."

This was met with a smattering of laughter, and you found yourself joining in. You nodded, looking over your shoulder at the stand where you did indeed have both a modern turntable, and as well as an old fashioned gramophone. The turntable was yours. The gramophone came with the classroom. Behind this stand was a stately bookshelf that you had defiled with an ungodly amount of vinyl records, on loan from your mother. "You heard correctly," you confirmed, turning back to smile across the room at Leigh. "You all will learn quickly that I'm a huge fan of muggle music, and we're going to be listening to quite a bit of it, if I can get away with it. In fact," you tapped your finger against your bottom lip in thought. "I'd been toying with the idea of allowing whoever scores highest on tests to choose a record for the day…"

"Then Hermione is going to be picking _all_ of the music!"

This was followed by more laughter, the protest being blurted out by the only other Gryffindor in the class, a dark skinned boy you hadn't gotten the name of yet. Hermione was red in the face again, and looked on the verge of burying her face in her arms and hiding under her hair. You smiled ruefully, narrowing your eyes a little at the boy who had spoken out, before informing him that "You better get used to her taste in music then." That shut him up, and you smiled pleasantly as you passed a glance over Hermione, before returning your attention back to Leigh. "That being said, you're welcome to drop by during my office hours, if you're interested in listening to records with me. I wouldn't mind that at all."

Leigh threw you a peace sign with her fingers, and you grinned in response. Oh, you could see it already; your classroom full of assorted students during your off hours, doing their homework and taking turns picking out records. You found you actually quite liked the vision, deciding you would ask Minerva if such a thing would be allowed. Muggle Study Hall. Then again, you sure had spent an awful lot of time in the dungeons during _Severus'_ free periods when you'd been a student… you were sure it would be fine.

"Next is… Chrysanthemum Kanker."

"You can call me Chrissie, Professor!" The final member of the front row was a plump Ravenclaw girl, with rosy flushed cheeks and hair remarkably similar to your own, all wavy blonde tresses. The only difference was that she appeared to be a ribbon aficionado, her hair pulled back with a great big bow and matching bows dotting her uniform and bag. "I'll be honest I'm totally obsessed with muggle technology. Just ask Marina, I was practically drooling over all of the cool stuff in here!" Marina nodded matter-of-factly from her spot beside Chrissie, and you knew a pair of besties when you saw one. The muggle-born witch and the muggle obsessed pure-blood. A perfect pair.

You grinned at having the odd assortment of rotary phones and toaster ovens that dotted the perimeter of the classroom called 'cool stuff' but you supposed to someone who didn't know better, it was pretty cool. "We'll be going over a lot of muggle tech this year, so I'm sure you won't be disappointed." Chrissie was practically vibrating with excitement. You would have to mentally prepare yourself to field a lot of questions from that one. Unless Marina could take over for you.

"Ernest Macmillan?"

You heard a slight groan, followed by a couple of giggles, and you looked up, frowning, as (_finally_) a Hufflepuff boy raised a hand. "Could you call me Ernie, Miss?" he asked reluctantly, and you smiled apologetically as you nodded. At least you were young enough to still be a _Miss_ instead of a _Ma'am_. The list in your hands had magically added the nickname in parentheses next to their real names, you realized. It had done the same for Chrissie as well. He smiled gratefully, before explaining, "I guess I'm like a lot of other folks; all magic with no idea about muggles. My mate Justin is a muggle-born though, and he told me I should take the class so I can stop asking him so many questions."

You joined with the chuckles from around the class this time, nodding your understanding. You didn't want to embarrass the boy any further, but you had to ask. "Let me guess… did you try to call him on the telephone?" Ernie groaned again as he buried his face in his hands, muttering '_don't remind me_' as he sank down against his desk. There was more laughter, but there were also a few sympathetic nods and shoulder pats from around him. You smiled understandingly. "Don't feel bad. That's, like, a rite of passage between magical and muggle raised friends. One of my old school friends spoke into the wrong end of the receiver for a solid five minutes before I simply hung up on her."

You weren't sure if that actually made Ernie feel better, but you saw a few pairs of students exchange embarrassed glances with each other, and knew that he wasn't even the only one in the _class_ to have done something similar. You let the chatter die down, before calling the next name. "Alright. Irene Morgan?"

"Mhm." The only Hufflepuff girl this time, raised her hand from beside Ernie. She was a pretty girl, with dark tanned skin and sleek brunette hair, but she looked… just painfully bored with everything. And you forced a smile as she told you what you already knew; "I'm here for the easy A." The elicited more snickering, and you were pleased to have a class with such good humor, but it sort of broke your heart to hear this, especially from your own house. But then Irene smiled abashedly, and shrugged one shoulder coolly. "Though I guess… I do get kinda homesick sometimes. Will we really get to listen to muggle music?"

She sounded so hopeful, that you felt your heart break again, but for a much different reason this time. You nodded in confirmation, waving behind you towards the shelf full of records. "You bet we will. And a lot of it too. I'm sure I'll have something you like, but if you happen to have any records, or even CD's, I've got a stereo system too, you're welcome to bring them into class. Or like I said, during office hours." Irene simply nodded, propping her elbow in the desk and putting her chin in her hand, in a poorly concealed attempt to hide the smile from her mouth. Good. So she wasn't a total lost cause to the Easy A.

There were only a few students left on the roster, and you could see two boys in the center of the class, practically shivering with anticipation at finally having their names called. "Alder Moss?"

"Hi!" The eccentric Hufflepuff boy that had started your round of applause at the earlier lifted both hands in the air like he'd won a prize or something. There were black studs in his ears, and lavender polish on his nails, and he looked just absolutely delighted to be here. "I'm Alder! My mum is a witch, and my dad is a muggle, and sometimes, like…" His bright countenance seemed to falter a little as he realized what he was saying, so he leaned back in his seat, shrugging a little. "It's hard to keep it separate, you know? Statute of Secrecy and all. I'm hoping maybe I can figure out a way to… like, combine both worlds?" His tan cheeks were tinted red suddenly, and the Gryffindor boy beside him reached over to shake his shoulder. Alder smiled back over at him, before looking back up at you.

And you smiled back, nodding with understanding. "That can't be easy," you conceded. "But I think your ambitions are admirable. I hope my class can help you achieve that. Coexistence is what we should _all_ be striving for, with muggle and magic folk alike." This was something that Charity Burbage had believed in whole-heartedly. You'd read about it extensively in her notes and recommended texts while you were preparing for the class, and you decided it was something you wished to adopt as one of the core principals of your class. Alder looked sheepish as he rubbed at his cheek, but he nodded in agreement. Cute.

So… that left... "Rory Scarlett?"

Alder's Gryffindor friend raised two fingers, holding them to the side of his forehead in a mock salute. This kid was undoubtedly a heartthrob, you could just tell; smooth, dark skin, a modern and stylish haircut, not to mention dimples for days. He had a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, and you could tell that his uniform had been subtly transfigured to be utterly bespoke. He also had painted nails, just like Alder, and you wondered if they painted them for each other. "I'm here 'cause Alder's here," he answered with a casual shrug, and then you were wondering if they did more than just paint each other's nails. "And also because muggle fashion has been off the charts for the past decade. I honestly think David Bowie has to be a wizard."

Your hand flew to your mouth as you burst out into sudden giggles, a few other students joining you, though not for the same reason, you were sure. It took you several long moments before you managed to get a hold of yourself enough to speak again. "You know, that's not the first time I've heard that theory, but I could teach a whole class about how that's absolutely impossible." Rory looked faintly crestfallen, but you winked as you added, "That's not to say his stylist isn't a wizard, though." And then the boy was smirking again, and you wondered if he would stay in the class once he realized this wasn't going to be a course on haute couture.

Rory was supposed to be the last on the list. However, one more name had been added just below his, and were extremely curious to find out why this particular student had decided to take Muggle Studies. "Last, but not least, Keelan Drake."

"Right here!" he called from his place in the back of the class, between the other two Slytherin's. He was leaning back in his chair, waving his hand like you were much further away than you really were. He still had a sort of goofy smile on his face, and you arched a brow to encourage him to answer. "Oh right, uh…" He floundered a bit, looking towards Leigh for help, but she wasn't offering any, and neither was Neptune, both Syltherin's studiously ignoring their counterpart. "I just… you know… wanted to expand my horizons?" Neptune snorted, and Leigh tipped her head back to hide her rolling eyes, and you couldn't help but smirk. Yeah, he'd definitely come for the view.

"As good a reason as any," you offered, and his lopsided grin only went dreamier. Oh boy. You'd have to keep an eye on him too. Or perhaps talk to Severus about him.

You let go of the list, watching it flutter down to the desk, before smiling widely out over the class. "Well, that was absolutely enlightening. Thank you all for indulging me. I feel like I know you better already." The class seemed to have loosed up considerably. Those who had looked loath to be there, actually were looking pretty contented now. And those who had been barely able to contain their excitement were… still looking super excited, but they might have at least cooled it down a little. You looked over your shoulder at the clock above the blackboard. "We've still got a fair amount of time. I'm not going to give you any assignments on the first day, but I'd at least like to give you an outline of how the semester is going to go, if you'd like to jump on some early reading. But… First thing's first."

You grinned. You had been looking forward to this moment for weeks. "Put away your quills and ink. You won't be needing them in this class." Hopping off of your perch, you walked back around to the other side, ducking under the desk, before popping back up with a small cardboard box. You scanned the room, finding many bewildered faces, but also several inexplicably pleased ones. Ah, nip that in the bud right now.

"That isn't to say you won't be taking notes," you clarified, and those excited grins turned into pouts. "You just won't be taking notes with _those_." You waved your hand towards the quills and inkpots that were still on Hermione's desk with a little shooing motion. They still looked baffled, but slowly began to comply, dropping the feathers and bottles into their bags. "In this class, I insist that you make use of the single greatest muggle invention of all time, in my humble opinion." You reached into the box, reverently lifting one of the items from it, poised delicately between your fingers. "May I present to you," you gave it a satisfying *click*, "The retractable ink pen."

Snorts and snickers again, and you smirked a little yourself. You couldn't help but be a tad dramatic. "Don't scoff. You're taking muggle studies! So why not study the muggle way?" You stepped around the desk with the box in your hand, counting out the number of students in each row, and dropping a stack of pens in front of Chrissie. She took one excitedly, before passing the rest behind her. You continued on down the line, placing bundles before Marina, Hermione and Louve as you continued to monologue.

"There's no need for quills that split and get bent up. No need for ink bottles that shatter in the bottom of your messenger bag two weeks into your first year of Hogwarts." Confused glances, both at you and at their fellow students, but you simply plowed ahead. "The same ink bottle that completely ruined your Charms and Transfiguration text books, and utterly destroyed the first essay you'd ever written for Professor Snape." Gasps of horror. Groans of empathy. You nodded solemnly, confirming that you weren't even exaggerating. "Oh yes. _That_ happened. You can ask him yourself." (_You wondered if any of them would actually have the _cajones_ to do so_.) "I used muggle school supplies for the entirety of my student career here at Hogwarts."

You dropped the box back onto the instructor's desk as you stepped back behind it. You watched as the more clueless students fiddled with their new pens, testing them on their notebooks, or clicking the button with incessant satisfaction. The muggle-born students also looked a little confused, as if questioning all of their life choices before this moment. You smiled broadly, your chest swelling with excitement; that giddy feeling one gets at the beginning of a long anticipated journey.

"You're going to learn that muggles aren't all backwards and primitive," you explained, leaning your hands against the desk. "In fact, I think you'll discover that in some cases, it's quite the opposite. Wizards seem _repelled_ by innovation." You gazed out over the faces of your new students, from those gawking at you with rapt attention, to those arching their brows with skepticism. And that was okay. You welcomed skepticism; it meant that they were open to the possibility of doubt. "If you learn nothing else in this class, I at least want you to walk away from it with a sense of curiosity. I want you to question everything. And I want you to remember that just because something is traditional, doesn't mean it's practical."

-0-

OC Credits! Find them all on tumblr!  
Rory Scarlet, Sun-jung Dove and Alder Moss belong to blooeyedspazz  
Irene Morgan belongs to allonsymexgirl  
Dakota Halton belongs to xerphena  
Marina Hart belongs to nekonian  
Lucas Amari belongs to etheriasnow  
Louve Campbell belongs to starry-mess  
Chrysanthemum "Chrissie" Kanker belongs to zult-of-zephyr  
Leigh Hawkins belongs to sadttitude  
Neptune Anderson belongs to the-lone-librarian  
Keelan Drake belongs to severusslugclub


	20. Chapter 20 - Light Year Love Pt 3

TL;DR: Parts 1 and 2 of this chapter are exactly the same as before, but I've added a part 3 that I should have posted in the first place.

This was probably a controversial move. I hope this won't be too confusing, and that you won't hate me for it.

I deleted this chapter as it was previously posted, and I'm now posting it again with new content, a 3rd part to the end of the chapter.

As I was looking at the upcoming chapters, I realized that I should have lumped these 3 parts together, because they make more sense together as a cohesive story line.

I know that this whole journey through POA is taking forever. The state of the world has been stressful for everyone, and the state of my personal life has been stressful for me.

I don't want to leave you hanging about "what happens next". If you would like to know what the next few chapters are going to look like, I'll have a short description of them in the notes at the end of the chapter.

-0-

Pt. 1

Since your return to Hogwarts, you hadn't had much occasion to venture beyond the first few floors of the castle. Your own classroom was on the same floor as the Great Hall, and since the only other place you visited was the dungeon for your nighttime rounds, you'd gotten rather unused to climbing multitudes of stairs. Which was probably why you felt so winded by the time you'd made it to the third floor corridor after classes had ended for the afternoon. The heels you'd insisted upon wearing today hadn't helped either (_you would have to reconsider wearing pumps anymore; the stilettos just got stuck between cracks in the stone_) and you'd had to lean against the banister in order to catch your breath after the trek. Resilience built from an entire lifetime of living in a third floor apartment, vanquished by a few weeks of lazing about on ground level. At least the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom wasn't _too_ far from the stairwell.

The door was ajar as you approached the room, and you gently rapped your knuckles against it, letting it swing open naturally. The classroom echoed as you stepped inside, appearing to be empty… _too_ empty, actually. All of the desks were missing, revealing the runic symbols and circles burnt into the wooden floor, and forcing ones gaze up to the dragon articulation that hung from the ceiling. Without all of the desks and assorted artefacts, the room was quite large and imposing, which only served to make the lone wardrobe standing in the center of the barren floor appear all the more ominous.

You hadn't been in the staffroom when the boggart had been discovered, but it made your guts feel greasy just _thinking_ about it. You didn't like imagining what it would have turned into, if you had been the first one to open it…

You were suddenly consumed by the overwhelming desire to turn tail and run; an inexplicable need that was only exacerbated by the sudden rattle of an opening door echoing through the empty room. For one stupid and terrifying moment, you thought it had been the wardrobe, but the mirrored door was still firmly shut. You hadn't closed the classroom door behind you when you'd entered, so that left…

"I _thought_ I'd heard someone knocking."

A voice from above, you peered around wildly… having forgotten about the staircase at the far end of the classroom. Remus Lupin stood in the doorway to his office at the top of them, his face warring between amusement and concern in the form of a tight little smile bowing his lips. You stared at him for a moment, before letting out a relieved laugh, clapping your hand to your chest as you giggled out your jitters, and Lupin made his way down the stairs.

"I swear, I don't always startle so easily," you explained between breathless giggles as he approached. Lupin's smile had broadened as he advanced, standing before you with his hands in the pockets of his ill-fitting robes, a brow arched in suspicion, as if he didn't quite believe you. You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. "Well! You can't blame me, leaving this thing looming in the middle of a big empty room. It's like a set up for a horror movie." His expression turned quizzical, and you realized he probably didn't know what a movie was. It was becoming a bad habit actually, going on about Muggle things like they were commonplace. But it was your job now, it wasn't your fault! He spared you the need for an explanation as he peered over his shoulder at the wardrobe as well, grinning leniently.

"That's fair enough. I really ought to get it back to the staffroom tonight. Levitating it down the stairs will be a chore though." Lupin sighed dramatically, and you covered your mouth with your hand to hide your own grin as he turned back to you. "Let me guess, you've come to retrieve your gramophone."

Oh right. You'd… sort of forgotten what you were doing here, in your momentary panic. But you recovered quickly, scanning the room before spotting the relic against the far wall. "That I have," you confirmed, walking over to the gargantuan music player, Lupin following along beside you. The record was still on the platter and you traced your finger over the edge of the tarnished horn, before peering back over your shoulder at him. "Did it get the job done?"

"Oh yes, it was perfect," he enthused, stopping beside you to look down at the old machine as well. "And Benny Goodman was a fantastic suggestion for keeping everyone in rhythm. I really can't thank you enough for lending it to me." He was so easy with his smiles, and they were always so sincere that you couldn't help returning them. Last night, he had visited your office after dinner to request the use of the gramophone, and it had been the first time you'd seen him up close since the Welcoming Feast. His color was getting better the more space there was between him and the last full moon. He even looked like he was gaining some weight, the hollows of his cheeks filling out now that he was getting regular meals. It had made something swell within your chest last night, and you felt it again now as you gazed over at him, your heels placing you at eye level with the man.

"It was no problem," you promised, dropping your hand from the horn to the crank, and giving it a few good turns, the antique mechanisms within winding tight. "Don't think the old girl will be getting much use these days anyway, since I brought my own system…" Lupin was looking curious, and you realized you were doing the thing about the muggle _things_ again. _Segue, Gwen. Segue!_ "Ah, so, how did it go?" you asked briskly, flicking the starter switch that sent the record spinning. "The wardrobe isn't bouncing around anymore, so I wager it was a success?"

"A smashing one at that." Lupin was watching you carefully as you gingerly took hold of the tone arm, placing the needle against the vinyl. There was a squeal, followed by some hissing and popping, before Benny Goodman's '_Sing, Sing, Sing'_ started pouring from the speaker. You grinned widely as you turned to face him, the snappy drum beat already lending a visual as to how the afternoon Defense class might have gone. He smiled back, seeming to welcome the introduction of the music; it meant you intended to stick around for a bit. "I'm quite impressed with the third years actually. They all did extremely well," he continued, leaning his backside against the display table beside the gramophone. "Especially considering the teacher they had last year."

Your grin faltered as your thoughts came to a screeching halt, and you tipped your head forward, letting your hair cover your face as you pretended to search for the volume control. You didn't want to talk about Lockhart. Not even to bash him. You were pleased to hear that Lupin was clearly doing a superior job as a professor of the subject but you just… _really_…

You swallowed down the sour taste in your mouth, unable to pretend you had no idea what you were doing any longer. Pushing the lever near the horn, you lowered the volume to a more acceptable level for continuing a conversation. "So, what are third years afraid of these days?" you asked, hoping your voice sounded casual enough. Hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction. Careful not to disturb the bell jars of skeletal displays that dotted the table, you pushed yourself up onto it, sitting close beside him and twisting a bit to pull one leg onto the table, tucking your left foot under your right thigh. You took the vantage point to gaze out over the darkening grounds beyond the glass windows. The upper floors really did have a superior view.

Lupin turned to accommodate, leaning his hip against the table so that he could face you more properly. "Oh, the usual fare for teenagers, I expect." He spoke very nonchalantly, but it belied the humor that was brimming beneath his tenor. "Banshees, giant spiders," he counted off coolly, before shrugging a casual shoulder. "Professor Snape."

Your breath hitched in your chest and you sputtered, caught between a dismayed gasp and a nervous giggle. "_No_," you insisted, but Lupin simply nodded his head, struggling to hide a smirk.

"I'm afraid so," he confirmed solemnly, though there was absolutely no remorse in his voice.

You really weren't sure if you should be feeling horrified or amused. The thought that someone's worst fear was Severus was… not entirely out of the realm of possibility, actually. It just contradicted the image you had in your head of the man. You knew he wasn't the _nicest_ teacher. He was strict, and he didn't suffer fools. But you didn't think he was someone to be _feared_. He wasn't scary. He was just a man. A man with a short fuse and little patience, but he was harmless. Even if you were a special case, you didn't think he would actually _hurt_ any of his students, except perhaps for their pride. "Who?" you asked breathlessly, chewing on your bottom lip, absolutely sick with curiosity.

"A Gryffindor by the name of Neville Longbottom." Ah, so. Not one of your third years. _(You were already starting to think of them as yours_.) That was a little surprising, though. Weren't Gryffindor's supposed to be brave? "Not much of a potioneer, I suspect. But… Well," he finally withdrew one of his hands from his pockets, waving it dismissively in the air between you. "_You_ had him as a teacher, didn't you? I'm sure you know how he is."

You frowned deeply at this, which caused Lupin to catch himself, his previous grin melting from his face, cooling into something more cautious. You forced yourself to smile, though you were sure it was quite unconvincing, so you simply dropped your gaze. "I… I _do_ know how he is," you explained, fiddling with the seam in your slacks, dragging your thumb nail down the line along your thigh. "Which is why I'm surprised."

Lupin had the civility to look abashed, his cheeks flushing pink, except for where there were scars. "I'm sorry," he relented, his apology sounding sincere, though perhaps only because he'd been caught, and not for what he'd actually _said_. He slid his hand back into his pocket, turning away from you to face the wardrobe instead. "I went to school with Severus, you know," he offered lightly, his smile contrite. "Same year. We weren't exactly friends, though. Big rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin back then. I suppose there still is now." His hand was pulled out of his pocket again, and he used it to rub the back of his reddened neck, fingers carding through grey-brown tresses. "Are the two of you… close?"

It was your turn for your face to flush, and you were quite grateful that Lupin was no longer facing you. You'd been surprised to hear that Lupin and Severus had been in the same year, though you weren't shocked that they hadn't been friends. You were morbidly curious to know what Severus had been like as a teenager. But it also made you curious about the nature of their relationship, if there even was one. (_Severus had been so angry…_)

"I apprenticed for him in my seventh year," you said hastily, still fidgeting with the seam in your trouser leg, gazing out the window again at the darkened sky with its waning moon. "Received my Masters upon graduation, thanks to him." You weren't about to reveal the true nature of your relationship (_if there even was one_) for Severus' sake just as much as your own. But you felt like you at least needed to speak up in his defense. "You get to know a person when you spend that much time cooped up in a potions lab together." (_Not enough though. You don't know him _enough.) "I think he's brilliant."

You glanced over to find that Lupin was smiling again, and it was strange, because he almost looked _pleased_ to hear this information. Surprised too, maybe, but still pleased. "Even I wouldn't deny him that," he admitted genially. "He was brilliant when we were students as well." He suddenly glanced towards the still open classroom door, before turning to face you more fully, leaning against the table. You could feel the jut of his hipbone press against your thigh, and you found yourself holding your breath as he leaned in close. Dropping his voice, he quietly asked, "He'll be the one brewing the Wolfsbane Potion?" He hadn't needed to whisper, with the music still bouncing along from the gramophone, but you glanced to the door as well for good measure.

"That's right," you replied with a short nod, keeping your voice low as well, for Lupin's comfort. "I might have helped develop it, but his actual brewing abilities far surpass mine." You didn't mind admitting this. You were good, because you'd learned from the best, but for some reason you had a hard time entertaining the possibility that you would ever be able to surpass your teacher. You may have helped create the potion in the first place, but you had no doubt that Severus would not only be able to replicate it perfectly, but would probably find a way to refine it even further than you had. You blinked yourself out of your musing, drawing your mouth up in what you hoped was a comforting smile. "I'll just be overseeing your transformations, checking up on you before, during, and after. I've been doing it for a long time. You'll be in good hands."

Lupin arched a light brow, and he licked his lips absently before grinning… well… _wolfishly_. "Is that a promise?" he asked, still leaned in close. You could smell his aftershave. Something musky… maybe Royall, or Clubman…

You blinked stupidly for a moment, before you felt heat bloom on your cheeks anew. Was that… _a line_? If you didn't know any better, you would think that he was _flirting_ with you.

…_Did_ you know any better?

…And would it be such a bad thing if he _was_?

He was attractive, absolutely no doubt about that. He reminded you of a classic movie star, like James Stewart, or maybe Vincent Price, the sort of guy you always pined for, even as a little girl. Kind features and smooth skin, except for the crow's feet at his eyes, and the scars across his cheeks. But in your opinion, those weren't negative attributes. He was witty, funny, smart. And he _smiled_. God, he smiled so often, and you didn't get tired of seeing it.

_You just miss Desma. You miss being with someone. It used to be so easy with her._

_It could be easy, with Remus._

_You told him you would wait for him…_

_But how long would that take?_

There was a shift in the music behind him, the upbeat tempo slowing down, tinkling piano and mellow clarinet. _Moonglow_. How fitting.

"So how did Neville Longbottom overcome his fear?" you asked evasively, turning your eyes away demurely. From the corner of them you could see he was still grinning, and you watched as he pulled his hands from his pockets, folding his arms across his chest, before lifting one hand to rub at the back of his neck again.

"Ah-ha… I suspect Severus won't be happy with me, when he finds out," he admitted, and you smiled sympathetically. Remus glanced to the door again, as if the man himself was possibly eavesdropping on the conversation, before looking back to you, those gold flecked green eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'll tell you if you make sure he doesn't poison me."

Your face split into a grin, the sort of inappropriately timed smile that occurs involuntarily when you hear bad news. "Remus, what did you _do_?" you groaned, and he seemed to resign himself with a sigh. He was leaning close to you again, and you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck as he whispered something into your ear. Your lashes fluttered as you closed your eyes, trying to concentrate on what he was saying, but his lips accidentally _(?)_ brushed against your temple and it felt like it had been ages since you'd had someone so close, and-

"…and swinging a big, red handbag."

You blinked, stunned as he pulled away, the man gazing down at you expectantly. Your hand suddenly flew to your mouth, trying to catch and eat the undignified snort that erupted from you. Your face was already burning, but you could attribute it to your suppressed, silent laughter as Remus smirked. Oh god, it was horrible! And yet… you couldn't help yourself. You gasped a great lungful of air before blurting out, "I absolutely _cannot_ guarantee your safety."

This time he laughed, such a beautiful sound in its authenticity. He managed to get control of his features quickly, but _barely_, as he rested a warm hand lightly against your arm, mock sorrow etching his face. "Well, it was lovely knowing you, Gwendolyn," he said morosely, attempting to keep his facade intact. "At least make sure he uses something fast acting."

And then you were dissolving into giggles again, holding your hand over your burning face as he joined you. The round, full sound of his mirth was so soothing. So honest and unguarded. There was something appealing about that. And maybe you _did_ miss being with someone uncomplicated, just a little bit…

Pt. 2

If returning to Hogwarts had felt like coming home, than being in the potions lab felt like crawling into your own bed after years of being away from it. It stirred a sense of calm and security that only came with being back in the warm embrace of familiarity, of knowing exactly how you fit and where you belonged within a space. It was simple serenity. But these sensations of comfort were accompanied by a soft tug of regret. Of wondering why you had ever left these walls in the first place.

You hadn't exactly been invited tonight, but neither had you been turned away when you'd showed up at Severus' office door after dinner, a week and a day prior to the upcoming full moon. You would always be hyperaware of the cycle, and you had a feeling that Severus was as well. You didn't even have to guess that he would start brewing this evening; it was unmitigated fact that he would. So you'd showed up. And your prediction had been correct.

He hadn't exactly been surprised to see you either, you wagered. You'd exchanged very few words since you'd arrived, but you got the sense that he'd been expecting you; there were two stools set before the same worktable, though you noticed only one cauldron. Which was fine. He didn't intend for you to assist, and to be frank, you hadn't intended to either. But it just felt… _wrong_, to know that a Wolfsbane Potion was being brewed somewhere in the castle, and you weren't there to observe it.

So you sat in silent companionship for over an hour. You watched his every move carefully, anticipating each step as it came. And you hadn't been exaggerating to Remus when you'd told him that Severus' technical ability far surpassed your own. Though you knew the formula by heart, brewed it countless times over the years, Severus just somehow… did it _better_. Or maybe he just did it with more _finesse_. You were grateful for the relatively low light in the dungeon lab, because along with the overwhelming nostalgia of being in this room once again, of being in this familiar position of diligently observing your Master at work, came the same sort of thoughts and fantasies that had started this whole… _thing_, in the bloody first place.

_Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad…_

Being alone with him was a screaming reminder of how terribly you _ached_ for him, and it left you suffused with shame and guilt over all of the flirting you'd been doing with Remus Lupin lately. And it most definitely _was_ flirting. There could be no mistake about it now. You got along with Remus quite famously, his humor and wit a breath of fresh air, and found yourself spending more and more time with him outside of staff meetings and meals. He'd stop by your office during your shared free periods, which had indeed become the Muggle Study Hall you had predicted, your classroom dotted with students, mostly third years, listening to records and doing their homework as you sat in your office with the door cracked open. You would usually be grading papers, but they'd always get pushed off for later in favor of chatting quietly with Remus, covering anything and everything from your classes, to your students, to your art. And sometimes, when you classroom was empty, you would whisper about lycanthropy, and the upcoming moon.

But as you sat here now, cloaked in the comforting silence, reveling in the sensation that you only ever experienced when you were in this room, you realized that your conversations with Remus weren't _deep_. It was all surface, superficial, _shallow_. It was… _puppy love_. It was Lawrence, and Desma, and every other trifling 'just for funsies' fling you'd ever had as a teenager. There was no substance, no goal… Not like this. Not like sitting in a quiet room with _him_, and thinking that if the world behind the door were to suddenly disappear, that would be just fine. You felt gross for ever having entertained the thought, that your loneliness couldn't handle the wait.

Severus was turning the burner under the Wolfsbane Potion down low, the faint blue wisps of steam curling from the slowly bubbling contents indicating its proper completion. It would keep well under a low flame for the rest of the week, and the standard size 4 cauldron made about eight doses of the potion. Better to have too much than not enough. Severus sighed contentedly as he finally allowed himself to sit back on his stool, looking carefully over the patent papers that contained the formulation, and studiously ignoring the grin on your face.

"Well?" you finally asked after a beat, your voice expectant as you propped your elbow up on the worktable, your cheek resting in your palm as you tried to catch his eye. Even in the low lamp light, you caught the tick in his cheek, the little twitch which told you that he was trying not to grin.

"You already know how I feel about it," he deadpanned, still (_pretending to be_) looking over the formula papers, as if there were any possibility that he hadn't reproduced it perfectly. As if there were any universe in which he didn't already have it memorized.

You rolled your eyes, and you didn't fight back your own grin as you insisted, "Yeah, but I want to hear you _say_ it."

Severus arched a brow, lowering the papers as he turned to face you incredulously. You raised one of your own blonde brows in return, and he snorted through his nose, placing the papers onto the table before folding his arms over his chest. "Of course you do," he relented with a put-upon sigh, but you could tell it was just for show. He returned his attention to the potion, pinching his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger (_tease_) as he considered it closely, reflecting back on the process of brewing it maybe, before he shrugged a sharp shoulder nonchalantly. "It's… _inspired_," he said finally, and you beamed, because you knew a compliment when you heard one. "Whose idea was it to brew in a silver cauldron?" he asked, reaching out and tapping his trim nails against the rim of the vessel.

You felt your cheeks blossom with satisfied warmth, and you raised your free hand like you were a school girl again. "Guilty," you admitted, ever so pleased that he had picked out one of your personal contributions. Though… it still felt wrong to take all of the credit. You hadn't invented the entire thing yourself after all.

"But it was Alex who…" you winced, catching the way you had said his name so familiarly. You hadn't heard from Alexander Mali or Eleanor Young since the project had ended, and you never found out if they had been in on the betrayal. You just always assumed that they had. "It had been Alexander Mali, who was convinced that integrating silver was going to be key," you continued stiltedly, grateful that Severus had not bat an eye at your pause. You turned your eyes away from him anyway, instead regarding the potion simmering in its gleaming silver cauldron. "We'd tried everything from silver dust, to the colloidal silver you get in muggle health food stores, but nothing was pure enough. It wasn't until we figured-"

"Until _you_ figured," Severus cut in, and you blinked in surprise, pulling your attention away from the cauldron and back to him. His brow was still arched high on his forehead, and he pinned you with his shrewd gaze. "Please don't downplay your contributions," he said plainly, though it certainly sounded more like a command than a request. "Especially the ones that were a direct result of my teaching."

You snorted, dropping your face into your hand as you turned away from him again, shaking with silent giggles. He wasn't _wrong_ of course. You had spent _weeks_ of your apprenticeship experimenting with different cauldron types, observing how each material affected the final result. Pewter was standard because it caused the least variation in reaction, but different types of materials, from gold, silver and bronze, to copper and cast iron, could all yield vastly different results at wildly different speeds. Still. He didn't have to be so _smug_ about it.

"Would you like me to pat you on the back or have you got a handle on that yourself?" you asked casually as you extricated your face from your hand. He was really struggling not to smirk now as he made a show of standing from his stool to begin the process of cleaning up.

"Oh, I can manage quite well on my own, thank you," he assured you, and you flat out laughed at that one. He finally allowed himself a grin as he went about shoving corks into bottles, screwing lids onto jars, and charming knives and stirring rods to wash themselves within the basin sinks. You made no move to assist with this task either, because you knew he liked things done a certain way. Not that you'd forgotten, but you weren't sure if the procedure had changed. There was a quiet beat of silence as you simply watched (_his hands_) as he methodically tidied up his workstation.

"So. No notes? No improvements?" you asked after a time, your tone still light and casual. "You tell me it's inspired but you haven't mentioned the word 'perfect' yet." You were goading him, and he knew it, but you were interested to know if he had any suggestions to make. You'd wished so desperately that you could have written to him the details, and gotten his opinion back then. You knew you had done well on your own… but there was nothing quite like receiving his approval, above all else.

He rolled his eyes at your request though, as if you should already know the answer. "I don't believe in perfection. Things can _always_ stand to be improved," he said finally, matter-of-factly, and you raised both eyebrows at such a bold, yet undeniably true statement. "That being said, I haven't seen this particular potion in action yet, so I can't determine what actually needs improving, beyond ingredients and technique."

That… was fair. Testing a potion certainly required trial, and observing the effects would not be possible for another seven days. The recipient hadn't even taken the first dose yet. Not that you were actually planning on doing any more trials. (_Not in the traditional sense, anyway_.) But still… "All of our volunteers said it tasted gross," you mentioned offhandedly, and Severus huffed loudly in reply.

"Most potions do," he reminded you, and you couldn't argue with that, smiling a little as you watched him delicately place all of the ingredients into the small crate he'd used to carry them into the lab. "Improving palatability is not a top priority, as you well know." He paused, his hand hovering over the bottle of dried monkshood flowers, and you could practically see him sorting through the wealth of knowledge he had filed away within his brain. "Though, adding peppermint to any potion is usually harmless," he murmured, his eyes unfocused, and you imagined that he was lining up the ingredients of the Wolfsbane Potion in his head, and stacking them up against peppermint to see if there were any obvious reactions. You'd seen him do this sort of thing before, years ago, when you would make a suggestion in your own attempt to improve a potion, though your ideas had usually been shot down quicker than this.

Vision snapping back into focus, he seemed to catch himself, and his thoughtful expression twisted into a scowl. "Not that I would be willing to experiment on Lupin, on his first go of it, no less," he hissed, his words so bitter that they left a bad taste in your own mouth. You were about to insist that you'd only been joking anyway (_you'd already tried peppermint in Albania_), when he cut ahead of you. "I wanted to talk to you about him, actually."

A sudden wave of uneasiness rippled through you, and you had to concentrate very hard to keep your face neutral. Suffused with dread, you were rapidly reminded of the incident with the Boggart a few weeks ago. You knew it had not gone over well when Severus found out, but you had yet to actually discuss the event with the man. Severus always seemed to grow contemptuous when he spoke about Remus. Was this just the usual acrimony Severus seemed to harbor for the man? Or was there something else on his mind? You felt woozy with dread, your mouth suddenly dry, but you managed a quiet "Oh?" hoping the curious inflection in your tone did not betray your apprehension.

Severus finally finished loading the assortment of jars and bottles into their crate, and he set them towards the end of the table before reclaiming his stool across from you. Arms crossed over his narrow chest, you felt reduced to a child about to receive a scolding, and you braced yourself for whatever was about to come.

"What spells do you plan to use on the night of the full moon?"

It was asked so blandly, so innocuously, that you stared at him in dumbfounded silence for a moment, before you were bowled over by a wave of palpable relief. Oh, thank _god_. You weren't sure if you'd managed to keep a straight face, your throat wanting to bubble with inappropriate giggles over a successfully dodged bullet, but you managed to curb it with a relieved sigh, casting your eyes down toward your lap so as to shield yourself from his questioning gaze. The last thing you needed was for him to peek into your brain and see (_Remus, glancing back towards the door as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispered, careful to keep his voice down, in case anyone was listening…_) something you didn't want him to.

"Well, in Albania we used _colloportus_ and _protego totalum _on the cells," you explained, counting both spells off on your fingers, feigning the reason you had looked away from him. "I figured I would use the same, plus a silencing charm on both sides of the doors. I suggested that he transform in his office, instead of his quarters." You finally looked up, having regained control of your facial features so that you didn't look completely guilty. "Less likely to damage anything important in there, should things go awry."

The ensuing silence that followed, however, made you question whether or not you really had steadied your expression. He was staring at you intently, that familiar line appearing between his eyebrows, as they were pressed together in clear disappointment. "…That's it?" he asked after an awkward beat, and you felt your neck and ears grow hot.

"Is that not enough?" you asked defensively, finally straightening up from where you'd been leaning against the work table, instead crossing your arms over your chest in a mirror image of his stance.

And this seemed to strike him, perhaps realizing his presumption had been rather discourteous, as he uncrossed his own arms and lifted his pale hands in supplication. "In Albania, your main goal was to keep the werewolves _inside_ of their cells, correct?" he asked, voice milder this time, and you relaxed slightly at the cooler tone.

"Yes," you confirmed, as that was absolutely correct. Keeping the werewolves contained so as not to be a danger to others had been the top priority during testing. _Colloportus_ and _protego_ had both worked perfectly well for that cause. And though the cells had been outfitted with silver bars, those had only been strictly necessary in the early days, when the werewolves still posed a serious threat. Under the effects of the potion, however, the silver bars had been little more than decoration. Upon being recruited to repeat this job for Remus, you'd felt no need to deviate from this perfectly serviceable safety procedure.

Severus, however, clearly thought differently. "But Lupin will be under the influence of your _near perfect_ potion," he reminded you, and you bristled at his inflection, but he merely smirked at you, and you rolled your eyes as he continued. "Werewolves don't have magic. Or opposable thumbs. Keeping him _contained_ is not the issue." He was watching you closely, as if waiting for you to connect the dots and have a eureka moment from his vague insinuations. But when it was evident that wasn't going to happen, he sighed, exasperated, and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. "You need to cast spells that are going to keep other people _out_."

You smiled sheepishly at his frustration, at being the cause of it, but his suggestion left you bemused. You… certainly hadn't thought of it that way. You were simply going off of your past experiences of having to lock up active lycanthropes. You hadn't really considered that anyone would come snooping.

"Who do you think is going to be checking up on Professor Lupin in the middle of the night besides me?" you asked, genuinely curious. All of the staff was aware of the situation, and they knew to stay clear. And any stray students would really have to be on a mission to sneak into the Defense classroom specifically to get into Remus' office. It wasn't just a room you stumbled upon. There were _stairs_ involved.

But Severus merely shook his head with apparent dissatisfaction in your answer. "I'm sure you're aware of the foolishness that some students get up to after hours," he prompted, crossing his arms again. "I once caught a Hufflepuff baking in the kitchens in the middle of the night," he mentioned offhandedly, arching one of those dark brows with smug satisfaction. You felt your cheeks prickle with new heat, and you glared at the arrogant leer he wasn't even attempting to conceal any more. But his mirth was short lived, and he sobered up quickly as he dropped his eyes to the floor between you. "And I am all too familiar with the special brand of idiocy possessed of by nosy teenage boys."

Your own embarrassment died away at that, and you had the decency to look abashed with this stark reminder. You still had the letter he'd sent you three years ago, and though he had not gone into detail, it always stayed with you, knowing he'd come face to face with a werewolf as a boy.

"Point taken," you said softly, and there was another lull of silence as you stared down at his shiny black shoes. It had never occurred to you that his encounter with a werewolf might have taken place here, at Hogwarts… You knew natural werewolves lived in the woods, but had it been a natural wolf he had come upon? Or had it been… Oh, that was a dangerous thought to entertain. Lifting your eyes, you did your best to keep the urgency for information out of your voice before you asked, "Are you ever going to tell me about that?"

The silence returned, his eyes still downcast, supposedly at your own suede flats, and it took a moment before he closed his eyes, sighing through his nose. "I don't think I will," he murmured, and you frowned deeply, your guts roiling with angst. Jesus. How were you supposed to get to know him better if he wouldn't bloody _tell_ you anything? You were compelled to ask him as much, when he slid off of his stool and onto his feet, drawing your attention back up to his dark eyes. He was offering a remorseful smile, as though he'd read your mind, though you were certain that he hadn't. "Not just yet, anyway," he promised, before turning his back on you and taking up the crate of ingredients. "Brush up on sealing spells and imperturbable charms, and maybe consider a security spell. One that alerts you whenever someone crosses a threshold."

And just like that, the conversation was over. You sighed a little, feeling hollow with the knowledge that he apparently didn't trust you enough to divulge events from his past. You'd really thought that you had earned that by now. But what could you do? You weren't entitled to anything. You were just going to have to keep waiting. You closed your eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. _You told him you would wait… _

"That wasn't all I wanted to ask you."

You were startled out of your reverie by the sound of his voice coming from his office. Standing slowly, you stretched out your back a little before hastening to follow him out of the room. He'd set the crate of ingredients on his desk, and was carefully transferring the assorted bottles and jars from the box to his private store shelves by hand. Glancing back at the Wolfsbane Potion simmering silently in the lab, you slid the concealed door shut on that room you'd always found so peaceful. Stepping into the office, you stood awkwardly in the empty space with your arms still crossed under your chest. "Alright," you asked, not bothering to mask the trepidation in your voice as you wondered what he wanted to know this time.

And this seemed to catch him again. He frowned as he paused his perusal of the shelves, and you were rather shocked to see him simply place the jar he held in his hand on a shelf at random before turning and stepping towards you. It appeared that he was doing some very careful thinking before he spoke, and you rewarded this effort by relaxing your defensive posture, allowing your shoulders to soften and the crease between your brows to smooth out. He wasn't being difficult on purpose. You knew that. You needed to give him the chance, because you knew that whatever he had to say was probably important.

He stood a respectful distance away, and you watched his hands fidget at his sides; watched him pass the tips of his fingers over the pads of his thumbs restlessly. "Please don't be offended," he asked quietly, and you braced yourself to be exactly that. "But… will you be able to cast all of those charms effectively?"

Oh. You… weren't offended by the question, surprisingly enough, but it did give you pause. _Colloportus_ and _protego totalum_ were child's play at this point. You may not have been exceptionally savvy at charms as a student, but you had cast those particular spells so often that even in your weakened, depressive state, you had managed produce those same charms on your mother's apartment when you had come home. It had just seemed like good procedure, and it was the only magic you had been able to create at the time. The other charms however… you weren't as confident about. Especially the ones he had suggested you 'brush up on', insinuating that you even knew them in the first place. You had a week to work on them, but…

"I don't know," you answered honestly, lifting your gaze from his fidgeting hands to his evasive eyes. "I've been steadily regaining my magic since I've been here, though. I'm not _completely_ useless anymore," you pouted, allowing a bit of that defensiveness back in.

Severus winced at your biting tone, and he shook his head as he took another step closer to you. "I never meant to imply that you were," he insisted, and you watched as he raised one of those pale hands to settle onto your shoulder. The weight of it was immensely comforting, and… you didn't bother holding back. What was the point of pretending? You tilted your head to the side and settled your cheek against the back of his fingers, the cool skin almost icy against your warm cheek. You felt as much as heard his breath hitch softly, but he didn't pull away. _Good_.

Severus swallowed, cleared his throat. "But in the case of keeping this school safe… _near perfect_ isn't quite going to cut it," he quipped. You froze for a moment, staring at his cravat and wondering if you ought to be offended _this_ time, before snorting as his remarkable sass. There was a resonant hum from deep in his chest, and he squeezed your shoulder in reply, taking a final step closer. "I can help you."

You finally rolled your cheek off his hand, tilting your head back to look up at him, and offered an acerbic smile at his proposal. "For your sake, or for mine?" you asked, vexation softening into fondness as you uncrossed your arms, lifting one hand to settle over his where it rested on your shoulder, and slipping your thumb under the cuff of his sleeve.

Severus' eyes flickered from your hand, to your face (_your mouth_) and back again. You thought you could feel his pulse through the blue lace veins on the back of his hand. "It would be mutually beneficial for everyone involved," he murmured, quirking an eyebrow and allowing one corner of his lips to tug upwards. You were overwhelmed with the desire to lick it.

Instead, you closed your eyes, still smiling ruefully as you reluctantly slid your hand away from his. "How very magnanimous of you," you retorted, and you were both smirking now. Though really, his offer was quite generous. He didn't have to do this. It was _your_ job, not his. And since you had the very accurate impression that he didn't care much for Lupin, you had to wonder where his true motives lie. But for now you could simply hope that he was just… taking care of you. Like he always did.

Pt. 3

You had been sorrowfully underprepared to study werewolves when you had first arrived in Albania to begin the Wolfsbane trials. The distinct absence of competent Defense Against the Dark Arts professors coupled with your lack of forethought to do your own research had left you entirely overwhelmed that first full moon. The sounds, the violence, the gore… being face to face with a fully transformed werewolf, even after all of the meticulous protection spells and precautions, had been a deeply traumatic experience for you. And you had been even less prepared for dealing with the aftermath; the dead weight of naked bodies, streaked with scratches, smeared with blood. The responsibility of caring for physical and emotional wellbeing of another human was a heavy burden. You'd been so delicate, so careful, applying essence of dittany to their open wounds, covering them with fresh bandages, forcing blood replenishers down their unresponsive throats, because they couldn't wake up long enough to swallow on their own. But when they _did_ wake, there was always a rush of panic, the raw, lingering fear clinging to their vacant memories, that they hadn't been successfully contained. That they had gotten loose and hurt someone. After that first moon, you had always made sure that you were there when they woke up, to immediately assuage those fears. To tell them that they were safe. That _everyone_ was safe. You would be there to wipe their tears, and hold them close, and let them know that you weren't afraid of them.

And it was because of this innate desire to comfort and care for that you found yourself in Remus Lupin's bed.

The night had been oppressively long. After dinner had ended, just before the sun set, you had accompanied Severus in delivering the final dose of Wolfsbane potion. You hadn't bothered to offer doing it yourself; you wanted him there, and he knew why. Despite all of the research and practice you had put into your spell work over the last week, you did not feel confident enough in the strength of your magic to perform the duty that Albus Dumbledore had bestowed upon you. Severus had spared you from having to explain this to Remus directly; he would simply cast all of the protective wards himself once the doors were closed. You knew that Remus was just as anxious about this as you felt, and you didn't wish to distress him further by insinuating that your magic wouldn't be strong enough to keep him safe. Or to keep others safe from him.

It had been painfully awkward in the small office as Remus choked down the last of his potion, while Severus observed the slowly setting sun through the high windows in stony silence. You were left to stand between them, feeling apprehension rolling off of one, and contempt radiating from the other. You were no closer to discovering the source of the animosity between them, but you had your theories. There was the possibility that Severus still held a grudge over the Boggart incident, but his disdain had been present long before Remus had ever arrived to the school. Which left you with the sick suspicion that Severus' derision lay solely in the fact that Remus was a werewolf. Which was nauseating to even contemplate. After all the work you had done… After all of his assurances that Wolfsbane potion could change the public perception… After all of his claims of how _proud_ of you he was…

When Remus had finally finished, he'd handed you the empty goblet, along with his wand and his robe, leaving him in what was surely the most rundown shirt and trousers he owned; an outfit that he could afford to lose, should things go awry. It made your heart ache, but he was still all smiles as he assured you that he was ready. Severus had mumbled something about how he'd _better_ be ready, before snatching the empty goblet from your hand, and exiting the small office just before the sun fully set behind the forest. Remus seemed to barely restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but he retained his good humor nonetheless, those gold flecked green eyes warm as ever as he smiled down at you. You'd felt like you should say something, assure him that everything would be all right… but those words felt empty at this juncture. You would tell him that in the morning. You followed Severus out of the office, shutting the door behind you, Remus' robe folded over your arm and his wand in your hand. The foreign implement made your fingers feel numb with unfamiliar magic, but you realized exactly how much faith he had in you, by trusting you with it.

"_Silencio_."

The sudden utterance of the incantation had made you jump, and you quickly stepped aside from the door, leaning against the railing along the landing so that you were well out of the way. Severus held his wand out before him, and you watched in awed fascination as he cast spell after spell upon the door; protection charms, security wards, imperturbable barriers, one right after the other. And it wasn't simply spell layered on top of spell. He was weaving each of them together, creating an invisible barricade against the door that you were certain would be nigh impenetrable from either side. His skill was beyond impressive.

And you never felt so useless in your life.

What were you doing here? Why had Albus Dumbledore hired you, when he clearly hadn't needed to? Everyone had put their faith in _you_, that _you_ would be able to keep the school safe from the potential threat that was Remus Lupin. Remus Lupin had a job because Dumbledore had assured the entirety of the staff that _you_ would be able to contain the beast. And Remus Lupin was presently under the impression that _you_ were the one keeping him safe from everybody else tonight. But you hadn't been the one to cast the spells. You hadn't even been the one to brew the potion.

All you were doing was holding his robe, and his wand, while also holding back tears.

When Severus was finished, he'd asked if he could walk you back to your classroom. You hadn't answered him immediately, simply staring down at the crack under the door, which was dark now. You couldn't perceive any movement from behind it. Not shifting light, not scuttling sound. All was silent and still. The room beyond the door could have been empty from this vantage point. Schrodinger's Werewolf.

Severus had repeated his question, a little louder this time, and you'd finally managed to find your voice for long enough to decline. You'd made up some excuse, about wanting to wait for the sun to set completely, for the moon to be high in the sky before you left, and when he'd offered to wait with you, you'd insisted that it wasn't necessary. A heavy silence had settled between you then; you felt his eyes burning against your skin and you made very sure not to look up and meet his gaze, because even you weren't sure what he would find beyond it if he looked inside just now. Without another word, he'd turned on his heel and descended down the staircase, his shoes clacking on the wood paneled floor as he made his way across the Defense classroom. For a moment, you thought he had paused at the threshold to look back at you… but he was just adding more wards to the classroom door itself. When it had finally snapped shut, and you were finally alone, you stopped resisting your tears.

You never left the classroom.

None of the security spells had gone off in the night, which was comforting, because it would have been humiliating to have been found leaning against Remus' office door, your legs stretched out on the stone landing with your fellow professors shabby robes wrapped tightly around your shoulders. Though, you hadn't gotten clarification if those security wards would go off had Severus himself returned through them. You were reasonably certain that he hadn't though, because it wasn't like you had gotten much sleep anyway. The physical discomfort of spending the night on the floor notwithstanding, you'd also been deep in the throes of an existential crisis for most of the evening. An endless loop of circling thoughts, of feeling pathetic. Powerless. Weak. Useless. You wondered if this was how squibs felt in a world of magic they couldn't obtain, but quickly dispelled that idea, as it did a great disservice to Argus Filch, who at least had confidence in his ability to strike fear into the hearts of even magical children. So at least he had that going for him.

What did you have going for _you_? The keenest answer was 'not much'. You had a job, sure. Okay. But you were teaching a fluff elective that you'd never even studied yourself until a few months ago. It wasn't your field of expertise. You had a Masters in Potions but you weren't doing anything with it. You weren't sure you'd ever be accepted into that community again. You hadn't brewed anything yourself in months. You hadn't performed proper magic in months, either. Your magic was so deeply engrained in your emotions that the lower you fell, the more difficult it became to tap into. Your wand had grown lusterless and dull, a far cry from the burnished maple it once had been. You could manage simple spells here and there, but anything more advanced was a struggle to achieve. And now you were depending on someone else to perform the spells that you had been hired to do…

All because you were _lonely_.

This was the ultimate conclusion you had come to in your hours of musings. You felt painfully alone, and had for a long time now. You'd been a little girl with no daddy and a mommy who worked at a bar, who got into fist fights and sometimes would make inexplicable things happen when you were scared. You'd been a half-blood witch with no knowledge of the wizarding world, but you had never been quite as enchanted by it as the muggle-borns had been. You'd been a victim of a love potion, and a victim of professional betrayal, and in both cruel circumstances, you had been convinced that nobody would have believed you, even if you'd gone public. And now…

Of course you had family, friends, lovers… And those connections would help to ease the loneliness for a time, especially when you were able to find solace in someone who could understand. You took comfort in the fact that this feeling of otherness was not unique to you. Your mother had been a black sheep, always a rebel, and surrounded you and herself with members of a similar tribe. Hufflepuff was known as being the house of leftovers, and though that descriptor was wildly inaccurate to anyone actually _in_ Hufflepuff, you'd always found acceptance there. And if there was anyone who could truly empathize with the struggle of feeling like an 'other' for most of their lives… it was a werewolf.

Not Desma, though. Desma had been bitten only two years before you'd met her. While she'd experienced her fair share of isolation since her turning, it was not quite as acute as that of Ismet Kadare, your Brown Wolf from the Wolfsbane trials. Ismet had been only a toddler when he'd been turned; he didn't _have_ memories of a time before lycanthropy. The only reason he knew he hadn't been _born_ a werewolf, was the broad, tight scar on his left shoulder that had been there for all of his life, and kept him from being able to use that arm to its full capacity. His parents had been kind enough to abandon him at a home for boys with magical maladies, but even the healers there were just as ignorant as his parents had been about caring for a young werewolf. His childhood was punctuated with the stench of moldy basements, the iron tang of fresh blood, and the crippling isolation that intrinsically came with the stigma of lycanthropy.

Ismet had been 23 when you'd first met him, a skinny, grey haired young man with a feral strength and desperation about him, and his life had not changed much from those nights in the basement of the boy's home. After the first full moon of the trial, Ismet had woken up screaming. You remembered being wrenched out of your own sleep by the sound of it, running from your bedroom in the crumbling castle and nearly scraping your knees on the stone floor as you fell to his bedside. You'd had to assure him, over and over again, that he was safe. That everyone was safe. That he hadn't hurt anyone in the night and that he was okay. It had taken several minutes, but you finally managed to calm him for long enough to allow him to drift back into sleep. The second time he awoke, once he was coherent again, he'd sheepishly confessed that he'd never woken up in a bed after a transformation before, and it had confused him. He'd thought perhaps he'd been captured, or imprisoned. He'd never woken up with most of his wounds already healed either. And he'd _definitely_ never woken up to someone calming him with soft words and soothing hands. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched in a way that wasn't meant to hurt. After the third full moon, you had moved a chair into his recovery room in order to sit vigil, to be there the moment he woke up. After the seventh moon, you'd abandoned the chair for lying beside him in bed.

Sitting vigil… Is that what you had done last night? The decision had perhaps been subconscious, and you'd certainly spent most of the night in your own head, as opposed to worrying about what was happening on the other side of the door against which you'd fitfully slept. But you knew that even if you hadn't been preoccupied with your own misery, that you would not have gotten much sleep on this night. You would have stayed awake despite yourself, because the last time you had actually slept through a full moon had been over three years ago. Even when the trials had ended, after your time spent with Desma, and you had returned home to London, you never slept when the moon was full. So what did that make you? Pavlov's Potion's Master?

You felt the exact moment that Severus' spells dissipated. The sunrise was on the other side of the castle, but you saw the early dawn spilling across the fields, and as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, you felt the magic dissolve under your fingers, like fairy floss the moment it touches your tongue. The air around the door felt different. Less muted and artificial. And you felt that maybe all was not lost in terms of your magic, if you were at least able to feel _that_. Light shone from under the crack in the door, and you hesitantly pressed your ear to the wood panel. You couldn't hear anything in the room beyond, and you braced yourself for whatever you may find. The only spell that lingered on the door was c_olloportus_, and with a simple _alohomora_, you unlocked the latch and stepped inside.

As much as you poured your heart and soul into your work, you still knew when to reign in your emotions and be clinical. It was surprisingly easy to shift into that role as you opened the door to find the prone from of Remus Lupin sprawled on his back over the floor of his office. Upon initial sight, you were relieved to find no apparent wounds or abrasions on his skin. Even the floor he was laying on was smooth and pristine; not a claw mark or a splinter to be found. There had always been a persistent little thought… that the potion didn't work the same way on all werewolves across the broad. And though that was still a possibility, it was relieving to know that it _did_ work on Remus. You gently placed the robes you had clung to all night over their rightful owner in an attempt to preserve some decency, before mentally running down your list of checks.

You placed your fingers under his jaw, and were met with a strong, steady pulse against your fingertips. Good. You slid your wand from the inside of your robes, and after a deep breath, cast a _lumos_ charm. You sighed gratefully when the tip of your wand began to glow brightly. Moving very delicately, you used your thumb to carefully pull back his eyelids, the dilated pupils constricting instantly when met with the bright light. Also good. After extinguishing the charm, you took another steading breath, before waving your wand across his body, and whispering the familiar incantation for a diagnostic spell. It was complex magic, perhaps the most difficult spell you had tried in a long time. But you could feel it working, because you were fueled by the knowledge that you _had_ to do this. Someone else's life was _depending_ on it.

In the early days of the trials, this spell would make your subjects light up like Christmas trees, their bodies streaked with red neon from every open wound and scratch. There would be spots of bright green shining from under the surface of their skin where there were broken bones that needed mending. Purple was internal bleeding. Yellow was infection. Blue was concussion. But Remus' scarred skin had shone bright white for only a few moments, indicating that the spell had at least been properly cast, before dimming back down to normal. No lingering colors across his skin. He was fine.

He was _fine_. He was _safe_. Everything had worked out right, and he was _okay_.

After a _mobilicorpus_ and another _alohomora_, you managed to get Remus out of his office and into his bed in his quarters. His rooms looked almost identical to yours, only the color palette chosen for him were earth tones of brown and green, and there was a distinct lack of personal effects. The room was cool, as it faced away from the rising sun, but you still made sure the curtains were drawn tight, instead opting to light a few candles so that he wouldn't wake up in complete darkness. You'd collected his clothes from his office, and placed them along with his robe and his wand on the bedside table. And then you had a choice to make.

There had never been anything sexual about the way you'd shared a bed with Ismet. Though the same could not be said for Desma, with Ismet, it had only ever been pure in intent. There was a primal comfort that came from sharing body heat, of being held and feeling secure, instead of waking up cold, scared and alone. Even after the potion had been perfected, and Ismet could _remember_ that he hadn't hurt anyone in the night… neither of you had really wanted to give up that comfort. It's where the line between your professional responsibility and your personal nature became blurred. You _knew_ that it was unprofessional. You knew it would never fly in a medical setting in the Muggle world. You weren't sure it would be appropriate in _any_ setting, Muggle, Magical or otherwise, other than the unique one you'd found yourself in in Albania. And it probably wasn't appropriate here.

But it was his first time… And you just wanted to feel useful. You just wanted to help.

Kicking off your shoes, you'd stayed on top of the covers as you settled onto the unoccupied side of the bed. It felt like heaven after a night on a stone landing, but you wouldn't allow yourself to sleep until Remus was awake. Propped against the headboard, you stared down at the mop of brown hair peeking out from under the covers, the grey strands glinting in the candle light, and you didn't even hesitate, though you knew that perhaps you should have. Sliding your fingers through the tangled strands, you gently pulled apart knots and snags until you were able to glide through his tresses smoothly. You watched as the mound of blankets slowly shrank as Remus relaxed in his sleep, and you were suddenly absolved of any misgivings you had about doing this. You slid down the headboard to lay against the pillows beside him, and watched his slack face in the flickering candles as he slept.

You weren't hired exclusively to keep the student body safe from a potential threat. You hadn't been hired just to cast protective spells. You were here because you had three years of experience taking care of werewolves. Any healer could cast a diagnostic spell and heal wounds. Any apothecary could administer a Wiggenweld and recommend bed rest. But your experience had also taught you that most werewolves were lonely, touch-starved and scared. That they spent so much of their time isolated from the world and stooping to accommodate the comfort of others, that finally feeling secure and in control could come both as a shock, and a luxury.

You were here because you wanted to help people. Someone. _Anyone_. You wanted to help Remus. And as you carded your fingers through his hair as he slept, you hoped to god that you would actually be successful this time.

-0-

The next chapter will have 2 parts: Halloween Night when Sirius Black breaks into Hogwarts, and Gwen confronting Severus after his DADA class.

The chapter after that will also have 2 parts: The night of The Shrieking Shack Incident, and the morning after.

I hope this keeps you excited for the next bits ;w;


	21. Chapter 21 - Light Year Love Pt 4

I had wanted to post the next two parts together, but this chapter ended up being SO DAMN LONG that I'm just gonna post it as a stand alone. And also as a thank you for sticking with me :"3

IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT ALREADY, I POSTED A 3RD PART TO THE LAST CHAPTER. So maybe check that out before starting this one.

-0-

You _really_ hated the Dementors.

Not that there was any sane person on the planet who actually _liked_ Dementors, but you were growing steadily sicker of their presence by the day. You hated waking up to grey skies in the morning, peering out your window as you braided you hair and seeing unseasonal frost on the ground, leaving dead flowers and brown, brittle grass in their wake. Hogwarts had always been such a bright, vibrant place in your memory; a far cry from the sullen, dull palette that now hued the school. Granted, you had already started off in a low place, but now you were certain that the thick, oppressive atmosphere that was blanketing the school was also contributing to the persistence of your depression.

You weren't sure if you could blame it on the Dementors themselves (_they weren't even on the grounds, effectively shielded by the protective barrier that surrounded all of Hogwarts_), but they sure as shit weren't helping. And it wasn't just you, either. Many of your students seemed to be sensitive to it, and they retreated to your classroom in the off hours in the hopes of finding some reprieve. A few had opened up to you about their fears and anxieties, and you were both grateful and honored that they trusted you in that capacity. But it only served to evidence that the entire school was under unnecessary duress.

So really, Halloween couldn't have come at a better time.

You had been one of the first teachers to volunteer as a chaperone for the Hogsmeade trip. Though it didn't thrill you to have to walk past the Dementors in order to get _into_ Hogsmeade, once you were finally there, you felt a small weight lifted from your shoulders. To see your students actually smiling and excited was a massive reprieve from the desolation of the last few months. The enthusiasm of your third years visiting Hogsmeade for the very first time was utterly infectious, and you spent nearly the whole trip with a small posse of them, enjoying the company, and the retail therapy.

The little town had come through with festive decorations, the store fronts and stoops lined with carved pumpkins and turnips, the windows strewn with garlands of colored leaves and acorns. Everything smelled like cinnamon and sugar and wet fall leaves, and the warmth of the butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks had been particularly invigorating. You'd perused the shops with your little gang of Muggle Studies pupils, and you started to feel a bit like a student again yourself. You treated yourself to a few seasonal purchases, fulfilling a few of your childhood dreams now that you had the money, and at the end of the day, as you returned to the castle with a sack full of Honeydukes candy and a garment bag from Gladrags, you felt… _good_. Really good. Even walking past the Dementors again couldn't dampen your spirits (_much_). For the first time in a while you felt clear and energized. You actually felt a little _foolish_, finding that something as small a change in scenery could lighten your mood so drastically.

(_What is it that they say, about_ _all good things_?)

You gave some serious consideration to simply napping through the Halloween Feast, given that you were already crashing from your butterbeer and Honeydukes induced sugar high. But the allure of the festivities and opportunity to wear your new outfit were simply too tempting to pass up. It _was_ Halloween after all. The dress was pretty simple, the silhouette channeling your inner Wicked Witch of the West, with a full tea length skirt, cinched bodice and long sleeves (_though it replaced the high collar with a boat neckline, and the cape wasn't nearly as long_). But instead of being black, it was a dark emerald green, taking you back to when you were a teenager and you'd tried on a set of green velvet dress robes in the very same shop. You'd been a broke child back then, but you were an adult now, and you could do whatever you wanted with your paycheck goddamnit. It was a far cry from your usual attire of thrift store finds and pieces borrowed (_stolen_) from your mother, but it made you feel sort of elegant. Knocking out two childhood fantasies in one go (_getting to _be_ Margaret Hamilton, and also owning some honest to god dress robes for the first time in your life_), you paired the dress with some black lace up ankle boots and your most dramatic pointed hat, before making your way to the Great Hall.

Even when you were a little girl, long before you knew you were an actual witch, Halloween had always been one of the Big Deal holidays in your home. For the first half of the evening, you would participate like any other child; dressing up in costume, going door to door saying 'trick or treat', then sorting the candy in front of the TV while cheesy horror movies played in the background. Your mother would get all of the chewy fruity candy, you would split up the chocolate, and then everything else would usually end up in a jar on the kitchen counter for the next couple of weeks. But after the typical Halloween festivities were over, your mother would insist on a more traditional celebration. One that involved candlelight, incense, sage burning and crystal gazing. She would convert the living room coffee table into an altar, where you would make offerings of crescent cakes and wine to the dead; your mother's friends who had been lost over the years, and also your grandfather, who you'd never known, but whose photo had been in the obituary section of the newspaper one year when you were still little. It had been the only time you'd ever seen him. Your mother had believed so avidly in the magic of these rituals, and as you looked back on them now… who were you to deny her that solace?

You weren't sure how Samhain was practiced in the wizarding world. It was something you'd always wanted to research, but had never had the time. You were interested in the origins of your mother's rituals, of how accurate they were to the rites of actual magic folk. You avoided approaching the topic in your classes until you were more educated on the subject yourself, but you did find yourself answering a few questions about how Muggles observed Halloween. And as it turned out, the celebrations of both worlds seemed practically the same. The same sorts of icons that were present in the Muggle world where also venerated by wizards. Carved pumpkins, black cats and spectral ghosts, as well as candy, costumes and orange, purple and black. The wizarding world and the Muggle world seemed to have the most crossover during Halloween, sharing similar traditions and symbolism. And it just made you want to know more about how that had happened. You'd made a note to make it a point of personal study… and of course, to ask Severus about it sometime, too.

The feast was fantastic, as all celebratory Hogwarts feasts usually were, with spectacular decorations, scrumptious food, and… eclectic entertainment. The traditional multitude of floating pumpkins were in place as always, but the fluttering swarm of swooping bats was a new addition, as were the serpentine streamers and banners that whorled and writhed through the air. You enjoyed the meal despite how hungry you weren't, and you appreciated the company that you had, settled between Hagrid and Pomona, both of whom were bragging about their respective pumpkin patches this year. The ghosts' spectacle of gliding about the hall in formation was old hat (_they did it every year_), but Sir Nicholas' spirited reenactment of his own botched execution was a new one. However, you found that you had a hard time concentrating on any of it, because despite the cheerful mood that the Hogsmeade trip had put you in…

You'd be in lying to yourself if you didn't confess that there had been an underlying motive to buying an emerald green dress. You'd be in absolute denial if you didn't acknowledge that you had been glancing down the table to where Severus sat between Albus and Minerva, hoping to catch his eye for nearly the whole evening. And you had to admit that you were intensely disappointed that he hadn't looked your way once. Because every time you looked up, he would be looking in the other direction.

Towards Remus Lupin.

As the feast came to an end and the students were dismissed, you found yourself lagging behind, staying seated at the high table and fiddling with a cup of coffee you didn't even remember pouring for yourself. You had no business ingesting caffeine at this hour, but in your defense, your brain was rather preoccupied and your hands had gone on autopilot. Staring blankly out over the Hall as the crowd of students began to wane, you sipped idly from the steaming mug as your brain churned with troubled thoughts.

The next full moon was fast approaching, set to rise within the week. Once again you'd sat in on the brewing of the Wolfsbane potion, calm and contented within the cool walls of the potions lab. You knew that Remus had received his first dose today while you had been in Hogsmeade; Severus had assured you that he would deliver the potion himself. But in the month long span between moon cycles, you still hadn't managed to work up the courage to ask Severus what his _damage_ was. Remus, for his credit, seemed entirely nonplussed by the cold hostility constantly thrown his direction, acting cordial towards the potions master when in company, and only ever speaking highly of Severus if he came up in your private conversations. Like he was _used_ to being treated this way. You hadn't managed to ask Remus about it either… But as time pressed on, you couldn't shake your suspicions that Severus really might be prejudiced against-

"Gwendolyn?"

Your shoulders jumped as you were pulled out of your musings, by the voice of the very man whom you were contemplating. You could feel the heat crawling up the back of your neck as you peered up at Severus, who was standing on the other side of the table, watching you carefully with a brow arched high with bemusement. You glanced past him to find that the Great Hall was nearly empty. Only a few teachers remained behind; Albus, Minerva, Filius and Remus all stood together with Sir Nicholas and the Fat Friar, chatting quietly amongst themselves. It seemed that Severus had come over on his own, and that caused the heat on your neck spread to your cheeks. There was a mix of shame, at having been caught in the middle of your running dialog about him, and of trepidation, because you had finally gotten what you had been wanting all night; his attention. And now that you had it, you weren't quite sure what to do with it.

"Sorry," you breathed, smiling sheepishly before draining your coffee cup and setting the empty mug onto the table. You were careful not to catch his eye, lest he peer inside and find out what had you so distracted. "It's been an awfully long day."

Severus snorted through his nose, incredulous. "Has it?" he asked, folding his arms over his thin chest. "Rough go ferrying students about Hogsmeade?" You had to fight not to grin _or_ roll your eyes as you rose to your feet, already exasperated with this conversation. This sort of banter, witty or otherwise, always came easily between you. It was one of the reasons you… were so fond of him. It's what made it so hard to simply come out and ask him about what had been on your mind these last two months; because you couldn't imagine a world where he would betray you like that.

His stony demeanor softened slightly as you stood, and you felt a little thrill of satisfaction bloom in your chest as his eyes raked over you. _Took him long enough_. You made a bit of a show of fluffing out your wide skirt as you stepped around the table to join him, and he watched your every move as you did. You were trying not to look downright _smug_ as you approached him, leaning your hip against the high table as you stopped before him, perhaps closer than was strictly professional. You vaguely wondered if he could smell your perfume as you saw his nostrils flare.

"Well, third years _can_ get a bit rowdy on their first visit," you explained, relishing the way he had to force his eyes back up to yours as you spoke. "I did get to make some _excellent_ purchases while I was out, though." It was hard to see in the pumpkin-dimmed lighting of the Great Hall, but you rather hoped that he was blushing, that you weren't just imagining the wash of color high on his cheeks. You flipped your long braid back over your shoulder before asking, "What do you think? Is green my color?"

Severus narrowed his eyes, the corner of his lip twitching upwards at your cheekiness, and you knew that perhaps you weren't playing fair. You had promised him that you wouldn't make things weird, but… weren't you at least allowed to try and keep his attention? You wanted to make up for the three years of lost time, to show him that you were a _woman_, not just a former student, or an apprentice. Though… perhaps you were trying a bit _too_ hard. You hadn't considered _that_, but under his suddenly scrutinizing gaze, you felt your insides turn oily. (_Can't you do anything right, Gwen?_) Just like that, your confidence began to whither, and you dreaded a reprimand as he opened his mouth to reply.

But it never came.

You jumped for the second time that night as the doors to the Great Hall burst open with a sudden clang. The remaining professors all turned towards the intrusion, to find a frantic looking Gryffindor boy booking it between the house tables, before he came to a stop at the foot of the steps that lead up to the high table. He doubled over then, his hands on his knees as he gulped down lungful's of air. (_Had he run all the way here_?)

"Wood! What's the meaning of this?" McGonagall pipped up in the lull of silence, quickly descending the steps toward her charge, sounding somewhere between irritated and alarmed. "You ought to be up in Gryffindor tower with the others."

Wood shook his head, still panting as he tried to speak. "Can't… Can't get in!" he explained between gasps, looking from McGonagall to Dumbledore, worry etched on his young face. "The Fat Lady is missing. Professor Dumbledore, you need to come right awa-" But the Headmaster was already moving, sweeping past the young boy and hastening out of the hall with a speed that belied his age. Wood turned to tag along at his heels, trying to explain the situation further. There was a pause where the remaining professors all watched Dumbledore's retreating back numbly, before McGonagall was briskly rushing after them.

You were frozen, watching the whole scene play out with a sense of dim unreality. But as the rest of the teachers made their moves to exit the Hall, you felt your brain struggling to catch up. _What the bloody hell was going on_? Curiosity did more to get your feet moving than anything else, taking a step forward to follow after your colleges, but a hand on your shoulder stopped you in your tracks. Your heels stuttered, and you looked back at Severus, whose face had gone suddenly ashen, a distinct turn from the flush you thought you had roused in him earlier. He was clearly on edge, his jaw set, his eyes bright and alert. You swallowed hard, and didn't resist as he pushed you back against the table.

"Stay here."

His voice was soft and dangerous, and he gripped your shoulder tightly as he stared out over the hall, watching shrewdly as Lupin made his way after McGonagall. The change in his voice, in his face, made your heart start to pound rapidly in your throat, anxiety swelling within your chest. Something was _wrong_. "Severus, what-"

You barely got the words out before he rounded on you, using both hands to grip your shoulders now. His piercing gaze pinned you in place, and you held your breath as he demanded, "Stay. Here." There was to be no arguing, and you nodded minutely at his command. When he was sure that you wouldn't be following, he turned on his heel and fled after the others, rushing through the Great Hall in order to catch up, and leaving you with the cold beginnings of dread chilling your insides.

You were entirely alone now. The remaining professors had all vacated, the ghosts had vanished, and you were utterly, startlingly alone. The Great Hall felt simultaneously cavernous and claustrophobic, like you'd been swallowed by a whale, a potent mix of a large empty space combined with deafening silence. You were hyperaware of your heartbeat, feeling your blood pound thickly through your veins. You could hear your own breath, stuttering in and out of your lungs as you tried to keep it slow and even. And you could feel the hair stand up on the back of your neck, gooseflesh rippling over your skin and you found yourself fumbling for your wand in your sleeve.

_But what good would a wand do you? You couldn't even perform the most basic of protective spells. Severus was the one who did all that for you, and he'd gone and left you here, completely defenseless. What were you supposed to do against any sort of threat? You're all alone and you're too weak to do anything about-_

"Stop that," you whispered to yourself, finally getting your wand out of your sleeve and clutching it against your chest. You backed up against the high table, wishing you could press yourself against a wall, to prevent anything from sneaking up behind you. "He wouldn't just leave me here," you murmured. "He'll come back…" You stared across the empty hall for what felt like hours, at the still open doors and the dark hallway beyond, hoping to see him emerge from the shadows, to come back for you before you succumbed to your fear.

But it wasn't Severus who appeared through the doors only a few minutes later. Just as abruptly as you had been abandoned, you were just as suddenly joined by the entire Gryffindor house, all of whom were chattering excitedly as they filed in through the doors. You could see Percy Weasley ushering in students, shouting importantly over their heads to keep it down, to stay together. And just as quickly as your fear had set it, it dissolved right back into confusion. _What in the world…?_

"Professor Goode!"

You straightened up quickly at the call of your title, trying to compose yourself back into being someone who was an authority figure, and _not_ a scared little girl, as Sun-jung Dove came bounding up the steps toward you, followed closely by Rory Scarlett. Sun-jung looked excited, while Rory appeared a little more reserved, glancing around the Great Hall cautiously as they approached you together. You swallowed thickly, looking over their heads towards Percy, who hadn't appeared to have noticed you yet, speaking with a handful of other prefects instead. You'd wanted to ask this question to the Head Boy, but Sun-jung looked fit to burst with the information anyway.

"What's going on?" you asked, a little surprised by how steady you managed to keep your voice.

Sun-jung held her fists by her sides, practically vibrating as she whisper-shouted the name, "Sirius Black!"

You blinked dumbly down at the girl, whose eagerness appeared to be entirely at odds with the bombshell she had just dropped. Your sluggish brain struggled to catch up with the meaning of her words, before they finally clicked into place with horrifying clarity. You felt your throat and chest clench tight with fear. "_What_?"

Rory, ever the rationalist, gently shoved on Sun-jung's shoulder, causing the girl to pout as she batted his hand away. "Will you chill?" he admonished, using his other hand to push his ever present sunglasses up onto his head. "You can't believe everything Peeves says…"

You blinked again, as Rory's statement made even less sense than Sun-jung's. Holding your hands up to grab their attention, you managed to quiet them both down with a look. Sun-jung had the decency to look contrite, while Rory maintained his steady stoicism. "What happened?" you asked deliberately, struggling to keep your voice even and clear, not allowing that tightness to let it crack. _You were the adult_. "Why are all the Gryffindor's here?"

Sun-jung opened her mouth with an impatient inhalation, but Rory cut her off with cool efficiency. "Professor Dumbledore sent us back. Told us to wait here," he explained, his arms crossed guardedly over his chest. "When we got to the portrait, The Fat Lady was gone." You nodded in understanding, as you had gotten that much from Oliver Wood, but there had to be more to the story, and Sun-jung was more than happy to fill you in.

"She was ripped to shreds!" the girl hissed, making a clawing, slashing motion with her nails. Your eyes widened at the graphic description, and you shook your head minutely, not understanding. If the Fat Lady was missing, how did they know she'd been-

"Her _portrait_ was ripped to shreds," Rory interjected with a roll of his eyes, and Sun-jung scowled at him again, her hands flopping down to her sides. "She ran off to another painting on the fourth floor, allegedly."

Sun-jung huffed, her turn to roll her eyes as she threw her hands up in exasperation. "Yeah and _allegedly_ it was Sirius Black who did it!" She turned back to you, looking very emphatic as she continued her tirade. "He was trying to get into the Gryffindor tower, and she wouldn't let him in! That's what Peeves said!"

A silence settled over the three of you in the wake of this revelation, Sun-jung looking wound tight like a spring, ready to burst into action at any moment, while Rory appeared pensive, as if trying to puzzle out the logic behind all of this. You felt somewhere in-between. The story sounded absurd. Why on earth would Sirius Black be attempting to get into Gryffindor Tower? A better question, how the _hell_ had he managed to get into the castle at all? How had he gotten past the Dementors? Though as absurd as the story sounded, clearly Albus had taken it seriously enough to send the entirety of the Gryffindor house back to the great hall. And assuming any of it was true… where was Sirius Black _now_?

It wasn't long before the rest of the student body had entered the Great Hall, Hufflepuff first, followed by Slytherin, then Ravenclaw, each house lead by their respective heads, and everybody looking confused. The remaining teachers had also arrived, and the ghosts had rematerialized to hover over the crowds. Rory and Sun-jung retreated back to join their house, and you found yourself naturally gravitating towards the collection of other teachers standing at the entrance to the hall. You had to fight your way through the throng of prefects that had assembled, but you squeezed yourself between Pomona and Septima, just as Dumbledore himself stepped through the doors. You glanced around, searching for Severus, and found him looking just as grim as he had when he'd left, if not more so.

"The teachers and I need to conduct a thorough search of the castle," Dumbledore announced, the entire hall going silent at the sound of his voice. Albus appeared to be calm, but the authoritative tone he took was one you'd never heard before; he was not to be questioned about this. Your heartbeat thudded in your chest, your eyes affixed to the headmaster as he continued. "I'm afraid that, for your own safety, you will have to spend the night here. I want the prefects to stand guard over the entrances to the Hall and I am leaving the Head Boy and Girl in charge. Any disturbance should be reported to me immediately. Send word with one of the ghosts."

You looked over your shoulder, to the prefects who stood looking pale and determined, to Percy Weasley, who was looking gratified by his elevated position, to the ghosts, who were nodding their translucent heads solemnly, even the Grey Lady and the Bloody Barron willing to stand guard. And the rest of the students still looked puzzled as they gazed either at the Headmaster, or down at the stone floor they were apparently going to call bed for the evening.

"Oh, yes, you'll be needing…" Dumbledore had turned to leave, before doubling back and waving his hand absently. The house tables flew away to the sides of the hall, the pumpkins covering the candles dematerialized, and the floor was suddenly lined with rows and rows of purple sleeping bags. Dumbledore then bade the student's goodnight, before turning round again and exiting the Great Hall.

The teachers followed after Dumbledore then, and your heartrate spiked. The gravity of the situation came crashing down on you, swiftly and suddenly; you were expected to help search the castle. You, who had been struggling to regain the full use of your magic for months now, who couldn't successfully cast a protective charm, perhaps literally to save your own life, _were expected to help search the castle_. For Sirius _fucking_ Black. You twisted the hilt of your wand between your hands, the silken ribbons you'd tied around the handle years ago turning damp in your clammy palms. You hadn't moved to join the other teachers yet. You couldn't force your feet to take a step. You couldn't do this. You couldn't. You _couldn't_!

Severus had the presence of mind to not sneak up on you this time. You saw him move into your peripheral vision first, before you felt a broad, warm hand slip over your waist, settling onto the small of your back with a familiar weight. Your breath stuttered out of your lungs at the sensation, your anxiety losing its sharp edges under the wash of comfort his touch brought you. Had _always_ brought you. You wanted nothing more but to sink into him at that very moment, but your position was already compromising, given that you were still in the Hall, surrounded by students. But the gesture was effectively shielded by the cape of your dress, as well as his cloak, and he kept his hand on you as he carefully led you out of the Great Hall. Your heart was still pounding in your throat, but you wondered if he would let you stay with him. (_Or would you just slow him down_?)

Severus, however, had other plans.

You had barely made it out of the Hall when Severus redirected you towards one of the stone pedestals that flanked the doors, holding the torches that illuminated the Entrance Hall. You were too dazed to resist him as he gently pressed you back into the corner between the pillar and the wall, and your weak breath hitched in your throat as you stared up, your wide eyes searching for his in the dim corner. His hand was still on your waist, but he was peering over his shoulder at the other teachers assembled by the stairs when he murmured, "Stay in the Great Hall."

Your mouth fell open, but you were dumbstruck as you attempted to process what he was asking. Stay…? "What?" you asked breathlessly, your hands still wringing around the base of your wand. You managed to pull one of them away, grasping his bicep to try and draw his attention back to you. "Why?"

Severus seemed reluctant to look away from the hall behind him, but your insistence tugged his gaze back into your direction, and his hardened features softened a fraction. He sighed through his nose, staring down at you, at your hand on his arm, his own hand still on your waist, before he gently slipped both away from you. You immediately bemoaned the loss of contact, but kept your hands to yourself, returning your grip to your wand.

"There ought to be a teacher in there," he explained simply, as if that was somehow all of the explanation you would need.

You shook your head minutely, trying to look past him towards the other teachers, but the space you were wedged into between the pillar and the wall made it nearly impossible to see. What was he shielding you from? "But Dumbledore said-"

"I _know_ what he said." You jumped slightly at the harsh bite in his voice, and stopped seeking out whatever was behind him, instead looking back up into his dark eyes. They were stony again, and you found yourself quivering under such intense regard. But it… it wasn't really aimed towards _you_… right? Your trembling must have been obvious, because he sighed again, sliding his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "_I_ want you… to stay in the Great Hall."

You felt your lips start to quiver, and it took everything in you not to start crying right then and there. You didn't even know why, but the building swell of dread and fear and uncertainty had crested within you and was threatening to spill out over the corners of your eyes. You swallowed several times, trying desperately to keep it together in front of him before asking, "It's Sirius Black, isn't it." It wasn't so much of a question, as simply seeking confirmation. Secondhand information and speculation from a couple of third years wasn't exactly a reliable source, and though it was clear that Albus was taking the situation very seriously, it still just… didn't seem to make _sense_.

Severus had lowered his hand from his face and was watching you carefully now. Less than an hour ago you had been trying to play seductress, confident in your new dress, in your own charms. Now, you wondered if he was seeing you for the child you really were. "We don't know that," he answered softly, thought there was still an edge to his tone that belied how troubled he truly was. He was clearly just trying to be diplomatic. Or perhaps trying to calm you down. But one thing Severus never did was sugarcoat things. You knew he was telling you the truth. "But… it could be."

You felt more than heard the high pitched keen rising in your throat. Severus winced, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to contain your terror. So it was true. They really did think there was a chance that Sirius Black had entered the school. Your lowered your hand from your lips, but kept your fingers curled against your chin, pinching one knuckle between your teeth. "_How_?" you hissed, shaking your head yet again in disbelief. "How did he get in? Get past the Dementors?"

Severus' expression turned even darker with these questions, and he pulled his gaze away from yours to peer over his shoulder again. You could still hear the voices of teachers chattering in the Entrance Hall behind him, and his eyes only narrowed further. "With help," he whispered, the words falling from his lips like frozen venom, and chilling you to the bone. He turned back to you, and though his expression was still dour, he reached out and placed a surprisingly gentle hand on your shoulder, his thumb dipping under the neckline of your dress to brush your skin. "Stay in the Great Hall," he pleaded, brows drawn together, frown tugging at his lips. "Please."

The hand you still held pressed against your chin finally fell away as you stared up at him. He was so adamant that you stay behind, that you not join the search. A younger you would have believed that he was simply protecting you again, just as he had always done when you were a girl, just as he surely continued to do so now. But the older part of you, the part that was already turning cynical and jaded at the age of twenty one, was afraid. That maybe he didn't want you to join, because you would be too fragile to defend yourself, the castle, the students, should you actually _find_ Sirius Black. Because you would probably die if you tried. "Why?" you asked, your voice cracking on the single syllable. "Why do you want me t-to? Because I… I'm t-too-"

Your stuttering was cut off by the tender press of a cool hand against your feverish cheek. You realized your vision had gone fuzzy, had drifted away from his face as you'd stammered, and when you locked eyes with him again, you found that familiar coal black gaze, the abundance of concern in their inky depths. "Because I asked you to," he stated firmly, and there was clearly to be no arguing with this, either.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, errant tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. _Damn it_. Could you just _not_ fall apart, for _once_? Your throat clicked as you worked it, searching for your voice that seemed reluctant to reply. "Alright," you managed to croak, nodding your head, and you felt long fingers brush over your cheeks. Soothing. Caring. Protective… Protecting _you_. _Again_. And you felt like you didn't deserve it. You caught his hand in yours, clutching him tightly as you opened your eyes again. His features had softened, but he was still looking grim. Determined. He was so much stronger than you. "I'll stay."

The intensity of his gaze had you trembling again, but he sighed with relief at your compliance. Of course you would stay. You didn't _want_ to go looking for Sirius Black. Leave that to the witches and wizards who could actually do something about it if they found him. But when you felt Severus squeeze your hand, felt him start to pull away, you didn't want to let him go, either. You were suddenly overwhelmed, wanting to keep _him_ here, keep him _safe_. Why should you stay in the security of the Great Hall while he left to hunt a madman? Gods forbid, what if something _happened_?

You let go of his hand, only to dig your fingers into the front of his frock coat and pull him close. You weren't thinking, not coherently, your buzzy, fear soaked brain glazing over as you fumblingly pressed your lips against the corner of his mouth. You didn't know if you were deserving of his kindness, his protection… But you did hope that you were someone worth coming back to. "Please be careful," you whispered against his cheek, savoring the warmth of his breath against your neck, taking comfort in the nearness of him.

After a moment, he nodded once, the scrape of his stubble brushing against your lips, before he slid his hands up to your shoulders, gently pushing you back. You let your hands drop, still clutching your wand in one of them, and peered up at him reluctantly. That… might have been another stupid, desperate move, you realized, but he was looking just as resolute as he had been before. But he didn't linger. Lifting one of his hands, he pressed his palm against your cheek one final time, before finally turning away, presumably to join the hunt, and leaving you pressed in your little corner.

_He'll come back…_

You clutched your wand with both hands again, taking a deep, steadying breath. Okay. You needed to get back into the Great Hall. Stepping out from behind the pillar you'd been wedged against, you found that the Entrance Hall was not yet empty. A handful of teachers were still clustered around the foot of the grand staircase, and your breath caught in your chest as you unexpectedly locked eyes with Remus Lupin. He looked… anxious. It was a look you weren't familiar with, coming from him. It was understandable, given the circumstances, but it was just unusual. You expected a comforting smile, maybe a nod, but you got nothing. Just an enigmatic stare, which reminded you that you ought not to be lingering either. You bit your bottom lip, offering him a nod of acknowledgement, before you heaved open one of the towering doors to the Great Hall, and slipped inside.

The hall was abuzz with conversation. Most of the students had already settled into their sleeping bags, but the candles floating overhead were still lit, and everyone was huddled into groups, chattering excitedly. As you scanned your eyes over the room, you immediately saw a familiar group of faces gathered together near one of the fireplaces. Did… your third years usually hang out together outside of your class? You were just about to make your way over to them, when you saw a bustle of robes walking briskly in your direction.

"Professor Goode? Is everything alright?" Percy Weasley was apparently taking his role of being in charge very seriously. It certainly suited him, but you really wished he would just mind his own business.

Swallowing down your nerves, you offered him a semblance of a smile, before sliding your wand back into your sleeve. "Yes, Percy. Everything's..." Well… no, everything _wasn't _fine. Obviously. You cleared your throat. "The search is getting underway now. But I…" you paused, grasping for an excuse. You couldn't tell him the real reason you were here. Or at least, not the full version of it. "I was… asked to stay behind," you settled on, and you saw the Head Boy's confidence crack just a fraction. _Shit_. You quickly reached a hand out to touch his arm, offering what you hoped was a comforting smile. "Don't worry, Percy," you assured him. "You're still in charge." He visibly relaxed at this, and you dropped your hand. "I'm just here if… you need some faculty support." Gazing out over the multitudes of students, you nodded slowly, both for his benefit, as well as your own. You didn't _just_ have to be hiding in here. You could be useful… Helpful. "If anyone has an emergency, needs to go to the Hospital Wing, that sort of thing." You desperately hoped no one would _have_ to, but you could still escort someone down the hall to see Poppy if the need arose. It was on the same floor after all...

Percy mimicked your nod, clearly thinking that this was a very wise idea indeed. "Of course!" he concurred. "Understood. Thank you, Professor." You were nearly expecting him to salute you, but he simply spun on his heel to return to his pacing of the hall, slipping seamlessly back into his role of being 'in charge'. It baffled you that Percy was raised by the same parents as Charlie and Bill. Sure, Bill had also been Head Boy, but he hadn't been quite so uptight about it. At least speaking to Percy had given you a little perspective. You weren't completely useless… You could help people here. And right now, you needed to help your kids.

Sun-jung noticed you approaching first, and as she raised her hand to wave you over, a dozen heads swiveled in your direction. It wasn't the entirety of your third years assembled by the fireplace you realized as you took a mental headcount. Hermione Granger was missing from the group, as was Ernie Macmillan. But you could see Hermione in a corner nearby with two other Gryffindor's, and hopefully Ernie was with the rest of his Hufflepuff's. The rest of the class was here though, and they were all regarding you with a mix of expressions, ranging from curiosity, to anticipation, to downright terror. It was those who exhibited the last that concerned you most.

"You guys okay?" you asked, tucking your skirt under your bottom as you knelt down on the stone floor between Chrissie Kanker and Dakota Halton. Chrissie looked visibly shaken, wringing the edge of the sleeping bag she was sitting on with her hands, and her fellow Ravenclaw, Marina Hart, was rubbing her back in soothing circles. Dakota, on the other hand, looked more pale and withdrawn than usual, already curled up inside of their sleeping bag, and actively avoiding your gaze.

Everyone else glanced around anxiously at each other after your question, but it surprised you when Lucas Amari was the one to speak up first. "What's going on, P-Professor?" the boy stuttered, point-blank, looking both earnest and fearful as he sat back on his knees near the fireplace. The current circumstances were probably exacerbating his already anxious nature, but he also seemed oddly determined, as if having all of the facts would give him the power to cope with this situation.

You sighed through your nose at his question, peering around at the collection of other faces. "What have you all heard?" you asked diplomatically. You could certainly guess, as Sun-jung was suddenly looking a little guilty, pulling the hood of her robes up over her head. You could already tell that rumors had spread through this hall like wildfire after you'd left.

"Rory and Sun-jung told us everything," answered Alder Moss, jerking his thumb towards Rory beside him. Both Alder and Rory were on top of their sleeping bags, Alder sitting cross-legged, while Rory was reclining back with his arms behind his head, his ankle propped up on his knee as he stared up at the starry ceiling. You noticed his sunglasses were back in place, and he was also avoiding all eye contact. "Is it true?" Alder asked, his voice dropping into a whisper, as if trying to keep from being overheard by the other groups of students outside of his own. "Is it Sirius Black?"

Swallowing hard, your eyes flickered around the circle. When you had been their age, there was nothing you hated more in the world than being lied to by adults. Your mother had always been straight forward with you. So had Severus, for that matter… As much as you wanted to protect them, what else could you do, but tell them the truth? "Professor Dumbledore seems to think that it could be." You bit the inside of your cheek as several of your students went pale. Faces that had been overjoyed with the novelty of Hogsmeade and the holiday festivities mere hours ago were now anxious and withdrawn, and it made your heart ache to see them so afraid. Because despite some of their tough exteriors, they _had_ to be afraid… you certainly were. "No one is taking those sorts of allegations lightly, even if they came from Peeves. If he's still in this castle, he'll be found."

Chrissie had finally laid down on her bag, trying to take deep breaths with Marina still calmly stroking her back, while Lucas had his head between his knees, looking for all the world like he might lose his dinner. Irene Morgan was suddenly beside him, snaking an arm around the boy's shoulders comfortingly, as Neptune Anderson summoned a bucket, surreptitiously placing it beside the shaking Ravenclaw. Sun-jung was no longer looking as confident as she had been when she'd first given you her version of the tale, as if hearing that Dumbledore was taking it seriously had made the whole thing very real. But she was flanked by Louve Campbell and Leigh Hawkins, both of whom had scooted closer to be shoulder to shoulder with the trembling Gryffindor. Rory had finally taken off his sunglasses, and he and Alder were both staring at each other with purpose, a silent resolution playing out in their eyes. You knew now wasn't the time to be getting the warm fuzzies, but you couldn't be more proud of them in this moment, seeing the array of different houses come together like this. Both Keelan Drake and Dakota had retreated into their sleeping bags, but while it appeared that Keelan might have _actually_ fallen asleep already, sort of like he did in your class sometimes, it was Dakota who ultimately broke the silence that had settled over the group.

"How did he get in?"

It wasn't much more than a whisper, the edges tinged with a tightness you were all too familiar with. Without thinking, you reached a hand out, gently squeezing Dakota's shoulder through sleeping bag in a way you hoped was comforting. You were gratified when the Ravenclaw didn't pull away from your touch, and you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth over their arm. With a great sigh, you once again told them the truth.

"I don't know," you admitted, frowning at your own lack of information. You were certain this was the question that was being most hotly discussed among the other students right now, and you felt inept by knowing about as much as they did. Though, while you didn't know how Black got in, you certainly knew how he _didn't_. "Hogwarts is protected by founder's magic," you explained, recalling back to the multiple conversations you'd had with Severus about the subject. "Enchantments left here by the four founder's to keep it safe and secure, since… well let's be real. It's like 20 students for every teacher in this place." You were gratified when this got a light chuckle out of a few of them. You carefully continued. "I'm reasonably certain he didn't Apparate or fly in, because I'm _also_ reasonably certain that the founder's magic has not been compromised. I don't think Professor Dumbledore would have left all of you in here had there been a breech that powerful."

There were some nods around the group, a few rigid faces turning softer with this information. You also found it to be a comforting thought, but getting too comfortable could be a detriment in a situation that required caution. Your hand still resting on Dakota's arm, your thumb absently stroking back and forth over the soft purple fabric, you reflected back on when Sirius Black had first escaped, on the conversation you'd had with Minerva when you'd first arrived at the school. She'd mentioned something about _sufficient evidence_, and you shivered remembering her words. "I think…" you murmured, your eyes unfocused as you simply spoke your thoughts to your most trusted students. "I think however he got into Hogwarts, is the same way he got _out_ of Azkaban."

There was another lull of thoughtful silence as your students absorbed this information, but Leigh was the one to break it this time, her voice incredulous as she asked, "And how do you think he did _that_?"

You drew in a breath, the reasoning bright like fresh neon in your mind, but dread caused the answer to stick in your throat.

_With help._

"The lights are going out now!" Percy's shrill announcement caused everyone to jump, including yourself, and you turned you head to look over your shoulder at the Head Boy. Pulling back the sleeve of your dress, your old amethyst watch told you that it was really kind of early to be sending a bunch of teenagers to bed, but… well, Albus _did_ tell Percy he was in charge.

The light in the Great Hall dimmed, the candles blowing out, but the smoldering fireplaces, gibbous moonlight and multitude of stars shining from the enchanted ceiling overhead were enough to illuminate the faces around you. You smiled sheepishly at them, before you pressed your hands together imploringly. "Alright guys, try to get some sleep, okay? I'm supposed to be the responsible adult around here." You heard several incredulous snorts from the gloom, and you pretended to be affronted as the remaining children started to shuffle into their bags. And you thought _you_ had been cheeky as a kid.

You wondered what your own next move would be. There were already prefects stationed at all the doors, and the Head Boy and Girl were both pacing the hall. You figured you could set yourself up at the high table, where you could observe the whole hall, and would be easy to find if you were needed. But you felt a tug at your skirt, and swiveled you head around to find Chrissie staring up at you from her sleeping bag cocoon with wide, sea-green eyes.

"Will you stay here with us?" she whispered, and you heard a soft sigh from your other side. Dakota… perhaps pleased that someone else had asked the question. And you felt a soft tremor ripple through your shoulders. These kids were depending on you… They trusted you in the daylight to keep their secrets, to confide in you. Now in the darkness, they were asking for your protection.

What would they think, if they knew how weak you truly were?

"Yeah," you whispered, giving Chrissie's shoulder a comforting squeeze. The girls eyes fluttered shut contentedly at your assurance, and you turned back to Dakota, who had moved slightly closer to you. You smiled sadly, pulling your hat off of your head and tossing it to the floor. "I'll stay." Chrissie and Dakota's sighs of relief weren't the only ones you heard around the group, and you closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath. They were depending on you…

It had been less than a month since the last time you had spent a night curled up on a cold stone floor, and it certainly wasn't any more comfortable this time around. You wondered if the sleeping bags were charmed to be soft on the inside, because you couldn't _imagine_ anyone getting a good night's sleep on the floor like this. The night was sure to be a long one, and you passed the time by watching the star filled ceiling, recalling your astronomy classes and searching for constellations in the clear night sky. The Fat Friar had glided over to you at one point, whispering in your ear that he had personally cleared your classroom and quarters, and that the first floor of the castle was secure. You hadn't even considered that your personal rooms might have been at risk, and you shuddered to consider just how many rooms were in this damn castle. Were they searching every single one? Was that even physically _possible_?

It was nearing three in the morning when you were finally tasked with an errand. It had been the Head Girl, Penelope Clearwater, who had approached you with a first year in toe, and asked if you would be so kind as to escort them to the restroom. The little Hufflepuff had tears in her eyes as Penelope whispered the request, and you made a big show out of insisting that it would be no trouble at all. You certainly wouldn't let on that you were shaking in your proverbial boots, but at least the loo wasn't far from the Great Hall. The Fat Friar had said the first floor had been cleared, after all. Not that you would allow for a false sense of security. You told Maddie that you were _very_ impressed with her Lumos Charm as you walked across the hall with her, and she managed a smile through her sniffles at the compliment. When you finally reached the restroom, you were relieved for once in your life to find Moaning Myrtle was already occupying it, assuring you that it was safe. You waited by the entrance, playing the age old game of giving Myrtle compliments to keep her from crying, and when Maddie had washed her hands and returned to your side, she was no longer crying either.

When you entered the Great Hall again, Maddie had thanked you quietly before trotting off to find Penelope. But you had barely heard the thanks, as you'd been startled to find the Headmaster standing just inside of the door when you'd entered. He must have arrived mere moments before you had. You'd just taken a step toward him, hoping to ask him for some news, to know how the search was going, but Albus turned away without even noticing you, walking instead towards Percy, who was standing down by the corner where Hermione was sleeping.

You felt stupid, for feeling slighted by that.

_Forget it_. If there was anything important happening, you would find out eventually. You made your way back to your third years, taking back your spot on the floor between Dakota and Chrissie. They were both sleeping soundly, which was impressive, given how anxious they'd been before. Dakota worried you in particular, but you hoped that maybe… when this was all over… that maybe they could start trusting you a little more. You felt particularly weary all of a sudden, propping your elbow on your folded knee and resting your head against your palm. The caffeine and the adrenalin were starting to ware off now, and you just wanted to close your eyes…

You didn't know Severus had entered the Great Hall until you heard him speak.

"The whole of the third floor has been searched. He's not there." Severus was speaking with Albus only a few feet away from where you sat, in the same spot where the Headmaster had been discussing with Percy. "And Filch has done the dungeons; nothing there either." Severus looked tired. More so than usual, anyway, the shadows under his eyes looking deeper, his skin looking paler than you'd ever seen it. Perhaps it was the lighting in the Hall. But he still held himself tall and upright, like a soldier reporting to his general.

Who was also looking awfully tired, you realized. Albus was usually a paradigm of vigor. It was unusual to see him looking so worn down. The Headmaster was asking after the upper rooms of the castle, the astronomy tower and the Owlery. But Severus assured him that they had all been searched, and Albus responded with a long sigh, taking off his half-moon glasses and rubbing them between the sleeves of his robes. "Very well, Severus. I didn't really expect Black to linger."

There was a pause as Albus returned his glasses, and even in the dim lighting of the hall, you could see Severus' jaw clench momentarily at the mention of Black. "Have you any _theory_ as to how he got in, Professor?" he asked, his voice low, but firm. You could still hear it from where you sat, and you were startled by the edge in it.

Albus leveled the Potions Master with a knowing look, and raised one white eyebrow as he folded his hands in front of his robes. "Many, Severus," he admitted, before glancing away, peering about the Great Hall as if spotting one of those theories floating about in the air. "Each of them as unlikely as the next."

Severus' face, usually so impenetrable, was suddenly lined with anger, his mouth twisting into a scowl, brows draw together and nose creased unpleasantly. "You remember the conversation we had, Headmaster, just before, ah," he paused, glancing towards Percy, who was still standing there, attentively watching the whole exchange. Severus looked like he could have hexed the Head Boy right then and there, but he returned his attention to Albus instead, dropping his voice. "The start of term?"

This time it was Albus who looked stern, and though his face did not contort with anger like Severus', his expression had hardened and his own voice had dropped a dangerous octave. "I do, Severus," Albus replied, his words as forbidding as his face.

But Severus either didn't see it, or he didn't care. "It seems _almost impossible_," he hissed through clenched teeth, "that Black could have entered the school without _inside help_." His eyes were narrowed and his fists tight by his sides as he took a step closer to the Headmaster, completely butting Percy out of the way. "I did express my concerns when you appointed-"

"I do not believe a single person inside this castle would have helped Black enter it." Albus hadn't moved an inch, hadn't raised a finger, but his tone alone made Severus stop his advance. They seemed to stare at each other for a very long time, Severus' lips a thin, tight line as he was clearly fighting back the words he wanted desperately to say. But Albus merely heaved another sigh, before stepping around Severus dismissively. "I must go down to the Dementors," he explained as he made his way towards the main doors. "I said I would inform them when our search was complete…"

Severus twisted around, watching Albus walk toward the doors, Percy sycophantically following along behind the Headmaster. The anger was still etched his face, but it was now joined by a palpable bitterness at having been disregarded so thoroughly. And you felt a lump form in your own throat as his eyes suddenly met yours. You weren't sure when you had started twisting your hat in your hands, but you quickly dropped it, making to stand up and join him…

But he sullenly shook his head, effectively stopping you in your tracks. You sat back down obediently, watching after him as he turned to leave as well, his footsteps sharp and swift in the quiet hall. Your shoulders sagged as the door thumped shut, and you sighed heavily as you peered around at the heaps of sleeping bags around you. Movement from the corner caught your eye; not the steady rise and fall of sleeping bodies, but the twisting shift of conspiratorial eavesdroppers. It was Hermione, you realized, and the two boys she had occupied the corner with. You wagered one was a Weasley, if the red hair was any indication, and the other was a black haired boy you didn't recognize. But they were all clearly still awake, and you were sure they had overheard the same conversation.

And you wondered if it left them just as sick with dread as it had you.

You would have to ask Severus about his theory later; Albus might not have been interested in it, but you certainly were. What sort of help could Sirius Black possibly be receiving? And from who? Though these questions were quite compelling, you couldn't help but wonder if Severus was perhaps… being a little paranoid about it. Albus wasn't a fool; he was arguably one of the greatest wizards of all time. He clearly had his reasons for disagreeing with the idea, but Severus was just as clearly adamant about it. You always got the impression that Albus and Severus were somewhat close (_Severus had regularly talked to the headmaster about you, they must have spoken about other things_), so seeing this hostile exchange had been… disturbing.

But it was too late to be pondering this now. They obviously weren't intending to move the students back to their dorms tonight. And though you knew, feasibly, that your job for the evening was done, and you could go back to the comfort of your own bed… you had no intention of leaving this spot tonight. All you wanted to do was help your kids... and when they woke up in the morning, you would be there to tell them that they were safe again.


	22. Chapter 22 - Light Year Love Pt 5

It had been a week, but it felt as though Halloween night had never truly ended. The school had awoken the following morning to a deluge of thunderstorms, the suspected displeasure of the Dementors having not been allowed onto the grounds to search the castle for their prey, no doubt. The weather only seemed to intensify the charged atmosphere of the school after the break in of Sirius Black, with time slogging by in a murky miasma of whispers, rumors and rainfall. And you weren't immune to it, even as a teacher. The entirety of your third year Muggle Studies class the following day had been spent talking about the break in, and attempting to ease the fears and anxieties of your students. But you felt particularly ill equipped for the task; Halloween night had been a brutal, glaring display of your own incompetence, and you still weren't over being faced by your own magical limitations. It was becoming a vicious cycle, of knowing your magic was deteriorating because you were depressed, and feeling depressed _because_ your magic was dwindling. And you had been so caught up in your own ineptitude, that the approaching full moon had completely slipped your mind until it was suddenly upon you.

It was the second moon since you had arrived at Hogwarts, and you had been no more prepared for this one than the last, once again depending on Severus to aid you in your task. At least you had managed to spend the evening in your own bed this time, as opposed to the stone floor, but you had gotten about as much sleep as the first time; which was to say, none at all. It hadn't been existential dread keeping you awake this time though. Instead, you had up all night, sick with worry.

Last night, you had taken it upon yourself to deliver the final dose of Wolfsbane Potion to Remus, and when you had arrived at his office, you were not greeted by the usual cheerful smile and casual flirting you'd grown accustomed to. Though it wasn't unusual for werewolves to become restless or paranoid before the full moon, even with the Wolfsbane Potion, what you found had been far beyond typical lupine agitation; Remus looked _abysmal_. Gaunt and pallid, he'd become a shadow of the man you'd grown close to over the last few months, and you had no idea how or when this change had occurred.

You'd spent the entire night fretting over it, and in your agonizing, you'd come to the conclusion that you had been so wrapped up in your own bullshit, that you had completely failed to notice that the last time you had even _seen_ Remus, had been Halloween night. He hadn't come to visit your office during the week, nor had you made the effort to go to his. You hadn't seen him in the staff room during breaks or between classes. And most concerning, you couldn't recall seeing him in the Great Hall for a meal _once_ since Halloween. You'd had half a mind to summon Flopsy and ask her if he'd been taking his meals in his rooms, like Professor Trelawney, but knew that was probably an invasion of privacy. So instead… you had spent the night beating yourself up about it. You couldn't cast a protective charm. You couldn't brew a potion. The _one_ thing that you could do, the simple task of looking after the emotional and physical wellbeing of this particular werewolf… and you had managed to fuck _that_ up too.

_Can't you do anything right?_

It had been a difficult transformation for Remus, it seemed. When you had arrived back at his office in the morning, Severus' protective wards melting away under your fingertips, you had found Remus much as you had the last time; passed out, nude, prone on his office floor in a sprawl of scarred limbs. But this time, you had also found speckles of blood on the floor, the vermillion droplets burning bright against the pale grey stone. Fighting against the panic, you were relieved when your diagnostic spell had revealed only a few small cuts on his hairline and brow. And the source of the cuts became apparent when you found dried blood under his fingernails. Of course, it could have simply been an accident; Wolfsbane potion might relieve the symptoms of transformation, but it didn't dull teeth or shorten claws. However, you weren't so sure that the injury _could_ be attributed to mere accident. Remus already had a litany of old scars on his face… and you knew exactly the sort of self-harm a werewolf could inflict, when there was nothing else around to bite or scratch…

Remus was in his bed now. You'd rubbed healing balm into his cuts, and had used a cloth to clean up the blood from both his face and his hands. You'd successfully _Scourgifyed_ the blood from the stone floor as well, and when all had settled, there'd been nothing left to do but wait. Not in his bed this time, but in an arm chair (_that you had, admittedly, pulled over to be very close to his bed_). He'd slept deeply for most of the morning, and when he finally roused, it hadn't been for very long. You'd given him a headache relieving potion, forced him to drink a glass of water and eat a piece of toast, but as you'd wiped the last crumb from his chin, he'd fallen asleep again. He'd been like a child in those few waking moments, sighing and complaining weakly, but also leaning into every touch, seeking comfort and kindness in a way that stirred something primal deep in your chest. He'd be more coherent tomorrow morning, but you could tell that he would be spending the remainder of this day in bed.

You thought about staying. About canceling your afternoon class (_the only class you had today_) and parking yourself in the chair beside his bed. Standing vigil, staying close at hand, to make up for your negligence from the last week. You were, frankly, disgusted with yourself, for the way you'd essentially abandoned him, when he'd clearly been in dire need of some care. Just as alarming as the suspected self-harm, Remus had also lost a great deal of weight in a short amount of time. Nothing was hidden from your clinical eye as he'd been laid bare on the floor, the ridges of his spine and ribs had been just as concerning as the blood on the floor. It made you feel ill, to know you had failed him so utterly. And now you were determined to make it up to him.

But what good would it do, to sit at his bedside and wind yourself up further? He was stable. You'd cleaned him up, mended his wounds, made sure he ate, and you knew (_you _knew) that he would be asleep for the next twelve hours, at _least_. You could order Flopsy to keep an eye on him, to summon you, or Poppy, or anyone really, should things go awry. You could check up on him yourself periodically, and once he was finally out of this post-transformation fatigue, you could speak with him in detail about his condition. Because you weren't certain that it was only due to his lycanthropy that his health had so rapidly declined.

You sighed heavily as you exited Remus' quarters, leaning against the door as you centered yourself with a deep breath. This was bad. You were so unbearably soft for him, that if you didn't leave now, there was a good chance you'd end up in his bed again. It wasn't just that he reminded you of Desma or Ismet anymore. It wasn't your caring nature simply imprinting itself onto someone in need. You'd become genuinely fond of the man over the last two months. You valued his friendship, treasured his kind smiles and easy laughter. It was nice. _He_ was nice. And it only made your carelessness cut deeper. You just wanted him to be okay…

_(And you though he was uncomplicated.)_

The sudden clang of the school bells made you jump slightly, and you groaned at your own skittishness as you pulled back the sleeve of your jumper, you watch face revealing that it was time for lunch. You realized with a wash of shame that you had been sitting vigil by his bed for nearly seven hours, which was sort of mortifying when you thought too hard about it. Rubbing your hand against your burning cheek, you allowed yourself one more petulant sigh, before telling yourself to _get a fucking grip_ and go get something to eat. You had a class to teach in just over an hour. Maybe you could squeeze in a power nap at your desk…

You had just made it across Remus' office when you became abruptly aware of a voice speaking from the other side of the door. Snatching your hand away from the latch, you felt a shock of humiliation bristle on the back of your neck. You'd almost walked into an ongoing class, and wouldn't _that_ look wildly suspicious without any context. With a tiny groan, you gently placed your forehead against the door, resigning yourself to waiting for the class to clear out before you left. The last thing you wanted was to exit Remus' office, when it was abundantly clear that you had not _entered_ it during the course of the current class period.

"You will each write an essay," the voice beyond the door commanded, and your apprehension spiraled anew at that familiar, silky baritone. Shit. _Fuck_. You _knew_ Severus was substituting Defense Against the Dark Arts today. You'd been at the staff meeting when he'd volunteered for the position. Why then were you so surprised to hear his voice? Straightening up, you turned your head to press an ear to the door, holding your breath as Severus continued his assignment.

"To be handed to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment…"

But you didn't hear anything else after that. It was as though someone had pressed down the volume button on the rest of the world, and the only thing you could hear was the sound of blood rushing through your veins, the thud of your heartbeat as it pounded against your ribcage, the suck and push of your breath in and out of your suddenly shallow lungs. Your head felt fuzzy and dull, like it was full of cotton. But then the cotton was set on _fire_, and you wanted to _scream_.

You remained frozen by the door, you ear still pressed to the wood panel. The class had cleared out, and though you could still hear conversation from the other side, you were barely registering any of it. _Detention… hospital wing… scrubbing bedpans… _None of it mattered. Your mind was howling, your fingers itching to do… _something_. Throttle the bastard, maybe. No need for hexes. Just good old fashioned muggle ingenuity. The son of a bitch, how _dare_ he! But under the flare of white hot anger was a crippling despair that felt dangerously close to _grief_. Never in your life had you wanted so desperately to be wrong about someone… When he'd told you that you barely knew him, you hadn't been expecting something like _this_. But the evidence was irrefutable. You'd heard the words come directly from his mouth. Recognize and _kill_ werewolves.

A door slammed and you jumped, glancing over your shoulder. Not Remus' door… the classroom door then. Was the classroom empty now? You lowered your head, pressing your ear to the wooden panel, desperately hoping the coast was clear so you could leave, escape to your quarters, to try and calm down and think about this rationally. But there were… footsteps. Climbing the stairs, up to the office. Your heartrate spiked, fluttering dangerously in your throat as you scrambled away from the door, your backside hitting Remus' desk, leaving you cornered, trapped. This was too soon, too fast. You hadn't had a chance to think about what you would say, how you would approach him, which _hex_ you would use-

You were panting when Severus opened the door, and for a brief moment, he looked startled to see you; a bare tick of one eyebrow, and miniscule widening of his eyes, before he schooled his features back into cold neutrality. He left one hand resting on the door handle, a thick textbook tucked against his side under his other arm. He straightened up in the doorway, his eyes piercing yours, but he didn't have to read your mind to know you'd heard everything. It should have been obvious in your red face, your shaking arms, your ragged breath. He took a calming breath of his own, before opening his mouth. "Gwendo-"

"Shut up."

It was out before you could stop it. You weren't entirely sure that you'd _wanted_ to stop it. Your nails dug into the lip of the desk under your hips, your eyes squeezing shut as you tried to catch your breath. Your face felt hot, flushed from the top of your head to the base of your neck, and you were trying so hard not to just explode. You needed more time, a moment to think, to gather your thoughts, because if you didn't reel it in you were going to say something you would deeply regret.

The door shut with a soft click and you felt him move beside you, felt the thump of the textbook being placed on the desk. There was a pause, an agonizing beat of complete silence that begged to be filled with a scream, and you nearly did so when you felt a hand placed on your arm. "Gwen-"

The touch felt like fire, and you twisted away from its burn, but it was too late; it had already ignited your fury.

"Just _shut up_, Severus!" you cried, the sound of it awful and grating in your ears. You turned your back to him, your hands flying into your hair, palms covering your ears, because if you heard your name on his lips one more time, you were really going to snap. You were trembling, but he wisely didn't try to touch you again. You could still feel that he was near though, could feel his eyes on your back, and you wanted to curl up, to shy away from it. But he didn't speak again. Didn't try to touch you. And in that lull, you struggled to find the words.

"How…?" your voice was creaky, tight with tears, but softer now as you turned back around to look him in the eye. His face was still stone, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the hardening of the lines around his eyes. He was apprehensive. _Good_. He should be.

"How _could_ you?" you finally asked, lowering your hands from your hair, instead twisting your fists within the sleeves of your jumper. "Was it all a lie? All those things you said when I came back?" The crease between his eyebrows deepened. Confusion? You would be more than happy to explain. "That… That my potion could help shift public perception? That people are _less afraid of a dog with a muzzle on_?" Your voice cracked that time, tears welling white hot in the corners of your eyes, but you couldn't bring yourself to cry, the sobs stuck in your throat. "That you were _proud_ of me?" You swept you hand sharply through the empty air between you. "Did you mean _any_ of it?"

Severus appeared to be searching for his words very carefully, his lips a thin, tight line on his pale face. But you knew, the moment he opened his mouth, that there was nothing he could possibly say that would be the right thing in this moment. "Gwendolyn," he spoke softly, and you flinched, because it was painful to hear him say your name so coaxingly. "It isn't like that."

"Like hell it isn't!" you shrieked, and it was his turn to flinch away from you, taking a step back. You actually stamped your foot on the ground as you advanced on him, your hands balling up into fists at your side. "I'm not fucking stupid, Severus! You've been hostile towards Remus since day one!" You jabbed a finger across the desk, towards the door to Remus' quarters, the words tumbling out of your mouth with no hope of damming them up as you continued your tirade. "It's not like your… your _bigotry_ has been _subtle_. All this time you've had it out for him, and he hasn't even _done_ anything to you except _be_ a werewo-!"

"_Silencio_!"

You gasped, recoiling, your hands flying out in front of you as his wand was suddenly brandished before your eyes. The flash of fear made your knees weak, but you saw that the tip of his wand wasn't pointed in your direction. You followed its aim with your eyes in time to see the ripple of the magical sound barrier solidifying against Remus' door. Severus then turned his wand on the classroom door, before casting the same spell on it. He kept his wand in his hand as he faced you once again. Gone was his cool placidity, replaced instead with genuine frustration, and worst of all, disappointment. He heaved another deep breath, before sliding his wand back into his sleeve.

"May I speak now?"

His voice was deathly calm, and you cringed at the sound of it, feeling like a little girl again. Lowering your hands, you pulled them back into the sleeves of your jumper, twisting the elastic cuffs between your fingers, just to give them something to do as you nodded slowly. You wanted to drop your eyes away from his, the intensity of his gaze making you feel very young, which… you were. You felt a wash of shame at your outburst, but what you did _not_ feel was regret. Because you wouldn't take back a word of it. He closed his eyes a moment, perhaps relieved by your acquiescence, and the stiff set of his shoulders dropped slightly as he took a steadying breath.

"You're right," he said bluntly as he placed a hand against the desk beside him, leaning into it as if already exhausted with this conversation, and you frowned at this awfully perfunctory statement. "I _have_ had it out for Lupin from the beginning. I've been against his employment at this school from the moment Albus suggested it. And I _am_ trying to get him fired." His voice was so calm, so nonchalant, that you could have hexed him for being so casual over what he was saying. He wasn't even denying it, and you were fucking _livid_. You opened your mouth to tell him as much, but his withering glare had you swallowing your words.

"But _not because he's a werewolf_."

You scoffed, crossing your arms with an irritated huff as you barely restrained the urge to roll your eyes. As if you were going to believe _that_. But Severus was standing at his full height again, and though he wasn't much taller than you, you suddenly felt very small as he advanced. "I want Lupin gone," he hissed, "because when we were students here at Hogwarts, he was best friends with _Sirius Black_."

The space around you fell silent again, punctuated only by the internal whisper of all the blood leaving your face. You felt woozy. Nauseous. Your mouth had fallen open, but you couldn't find anything to say, utterly dumbstruck by this allegation. Because what he'd just revealed absolutely could _not_ be true, but that conflicted greatly with the reality that Severus had never lied to you in your _life_. You shook your head minutely, shifting your crossed arms, hugging you elbows tightly as you meekly stammered, "W-What?"

Severus' face was grave as he looked you over, taking in your wilting appearance, but apparently he wasn't feeling terribly sympathetic today as he rolled his eyes at you. "I suppose he's failed to mention that, during all of your little tea dates?" His tone was venomously spiteful, and your breath caught in your throat, hurt by his (_all too accurate_) accusation. You frowned, shrinking away and staring down at the floor, your fingers digging into your arms as you tried to make yourself smaller.

(_You wouldn't feel compelled to spend all of your time with Remus if Severus would just_…)

Any satisfaction he might have felt at your discomfort seemed to drain away instantly, and he looked painfully exhausted as he rubbed his forehead with one pale hand, the other leaning against the desk again. "I know that you mean well," he muttered, and you grasped that his vindictiveness was not really directed towards you. "But he is _not_ the man you think he is. When I…" He paused, dropping his hand from his face, letting it fall to his side as he gazed across the room at you. And you felt your breath hitch in your chest again; not because you were offended, or frightened. But because you knew the look he was giving you. The profound sorrow. The abundance of grief. Too much, for a man so young to bare. You recognized that he was about to tell you something important, and you nodded slowly for him to continue. You understood. You wouldn't tell.

Severus returned your nod curtly, glancing towards the door to Remus' quarters, before he turned away from it entirely, leaning back against the desk and folding his arms over his chest. "When I was a student here, I was regularly accosted by Lupin's group of friends," he began, seemingly through gritted teeth. His voice was steely, like he just wanted to get this over with, and you noted that he wasn't looking at you, his eyes cast down towards the floor. "A gang of four Gryffindor's, which happened to include Sirius Black. Nothing I'm telling you is a secret, by the way." He glanced up at you then, and you started slightly at the shift in tone. "You can search the school archives to see who was in Gryffindor between '71 and '78. Or you could ask Minerva about it, if you like."

You frowned at his insinuation, but recognized that you certainly didn't appear to be giving him the benefit of the doubt, bent over as you were, in a defensive position like a frightened animal. Unfolding your arms, you took a step towards him, before hesitantly deciding to settle beside him. You carefully pushed yourself up to sit on the edge of the desk, and he turned his head slightly in order to look up at you. You swallowed against your dry mouth, your hands in your lap, fiddling with the sleeves of your jumper again. "I don't need to ask her," you said timidly. "I believe you."

Severus considered you for a moment, and you made an effort not to look away as you felt the long forgotten, but familiar sensation of beetles digging through earth, scuttling around on the inside of your skull as he peered far past your hazel eyes. He hadn't done this in a while… or rather, you hadn't _allowed_ him to do it for a while. He'd attempted it, two months ago, outside of the Hog's Head when he'd been trying to glean the source of your malaise before you were ready to divulge it. But the last time you had _willingly_ let him in had been in your sixth year, on that rainy day on Hogsmeade. Though, there was the time you'd _begged_ him to do it on the bathroom floor of the Atticus. But he hadn't needed to. Because he knew. _You_ still didn't know what it was, but you didn't have anything to hide from him this time. Not anymore.

Severus searched your eyes for several long seconds, before he seemed satisfied with whatever he'd found (_sincerity, perhaps_?). "As I was saying…" he murmured, returning his eyes to the floor, his fingers twitching at the crooks of his elbows, as if he didn't quite know what to do with his hands either. "Those four were a perpetual grievance, so naturally, I was determined to figure out a way to get them all expelled." You frowned a little, watching his profile as his expression soured with each word. "I'd believed that I'd found my opportunity, when I put together the pattern of Lupin's monthly absences from class, and their subsequent correspondence with the cycle of the moon. But I didn't have any _proof_." Your little frown deepened, but you held your tongue from saying anything. You'd promised you would hear him out, and besides: who were _you_ to judge someone for their reaction to harassment as a child? _You'd_ punched a boy square in the nose for similar reasons, after all.

"Sirius Black had thought it would be tremendously entertaining," he continued, "to tell me that if I wanted to know where Lupin went every month, I need only prod the knot on the trunk of the Whomping Willow, and follow the tunnel under its roots." You blinked stupidly, turning your head to face the windows that looked out over the grounds. You couldn't see the Willow from where you sat, but you know it wasn't far off. The savage tree had always been a point of curiosity for you, but never in your entire time as a student had you heard or even suspected that there was a _secret passage_ under it. "It leads out to the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade," Severus explained, clearly picking up on your confusion, but really, that only made you even _more_ curious. Looking back to him though, that interest waned under the severity of his glare. "Dumbledore had arranged for Lupin to carry out his transformations there while he was a student here, encouraging the rumors that it was violently haunted so people would stay away from it. I was too headstrong to realize that it was a trap."

You stared at him for a long, uncomprehending moment. But when the reality of his words finally sank in, you felt your guts fall out onto the floor. "Remus…" you whispered, glancing over your shoulder at the still closed door, before leaning closer to Severus. "_Remus_ was the werewolf that you'd faced as a boy?" you blurted out unthinkingly, the puzzle pieces sliding together in rapid succession. You felt unbearably stupid suddenly, for not suspecting it earlier. Severus had told you that he'd faced a fully transformed werewolf, years ago in a moment of teenage idiocy. You still had the letter of this confession stashed away under your bed at home. You knew they had both gone to school at the same time, but you'd never thought… never even _considered_ that it had been _Remus_. And that Severus had been _tricked_-

"That's right," Severus confirmed, raising his voice slightly in order to regain your attention, which had slid down to somewhere on the floor as you tried to straighten out the facts in your mind. "I only avoided a grizzly death when James Potter decided he didn't want my blood on his hands, and pulled me from the tunnel."

"James P-…" you swallowed, recognizing the name instantly from the annals of History of Magic class, but you were having a difficult time reconciling it within the current narrative. "_James_ _Potter_?"

"Their ring leader," Severus clarified, though your understanding was as muddy as ever. "It was James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew." There was a deep, caustic bitterness in his voice as he cited these names, and you felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch him. His glower made you hold your hands back. "Potter and Black were by far my primary aggressors, but _none_ of them were innocent. They were all insolent, arrogant bastards who took great pleasure in knocking me down at every available opportunity." You could see the rapid increase in the rise and fall of his chest, and his fingers were no longer twitching at his elbows, but rather were digging into them, the knuckles shining white against already pallid skin. "I'm certain Potter only saved my arse so as not to tarnish anyone's perfect perception of him."

When you were a teenager, you'd always had the impression that the majority of the advice your Potions Professor had given you, had been based off of a great deal of personal experience on his part. You had sussed out early on that he was a half-blood, or something similar, but over the years, you'd also suspected that he might have been poor like you, too. That he might have been lonely, an outsider among outsiders, like you. And that he might have been bullied for no reason other than existing. Like you.

_'I understand how it feels to be provoked as you were,' _he had told you in a late night detention, all those years ago._ 'I also understand the desire for swift retribution… You made an enemy today.'_

"I can hear your heart breaking from here," he murmured, turning his face toward you, and you twitched at the accusation, frowning sheepishly. Because he wasn't wrong. There _was _an ache deep in your chest, a combination of swallowed tears and righteous indignation. And he didn't have to read your mind in order to sense it, because you were certain it was radiating out of your very being. But clearly, Severus wasn't having it.

"Spare me your pity," he sighed acrimoniously. "And do not misinterpret me either." He finally stood up from the desk, turning to face you fully, his arms still crossed defensively over his narrow chest. "I'm not trying to get Lupin sacked for petty revenge over a prank pulled on me nearly twenty years ago. The fact that he is a werewolf is…" he paused, glancing away from you in a manner that looked suspiciously like shame. "…Simply a means to an end."

Severus started pacing then, back and forth in front of the desk, only a few feet in front of you. "No. Those four were always close. Thick as thieves. The best of friends, until Potter was murdered by the Dark Lord, and Pettigrew was murdered by Black." He stopped his pacing then, standing in front of the window, his back turned towards you as he stared out over the grey, dreary grounds. "Black was a… loyal servant. Of You-Know-Who," he explained stiltedly, and you frowned slightly, because for the first time since he began this story, he sounded… unsure of himself. Which was curious, because of all the things to possibly be unsure about... "Both Dumbledore and the Ministry believe he's trying to break into Hogwarts to… finish the job." He paused again, his shoulders slumping as he uncrossed his arms, placing his hands on the stone windowsill. "To kill Harry Potter."

The office fell silent then, the only sound being the soft patter of afternoon rain against the glass windowpanes. And in the ensuing quiet, you felt very foolish. You'd learned about Harry Potter, and You-Know-Who, and the Wizarding War, of course. But that had been… _History class_. You'd learned about it in the strange, isolated bubble of a classroom, of a text book, of Professor Binn's droning voice that made you feel separate, removed from the events themselves. You'd grown up Muggle, had no inkling of the war taking place in the shadows, because you had only been a little girl when it happened. You never considered that what had happened back then, could possibly have any effect on you now. And you hadn't realized that _the_ Harry Potter, the little baby who had somehow put an end to the greatest reign of terror in Wizarding history… was now a _student_ at the very school you were teaching at. And that his life was in danger.

You were also startled to learn that both Remus and Severus were apparently… _close to the situation_. Of course, they'd been alive at the time of those events, and certainly the Wizarding War had affected everybody differently… You'd simply never made the connection. Never thought to ask. It was difficult to process that both of these men, to whom you considered yourself close, were in some capacity involved with all of those names in your old textbooks.

Because their names _hadn't_ been included. Not Severus… and not Remus.

_"Black_ was the one who… who betrayed the Potters," you said suddenly, shattering the silence of the room. You lifted your head from where you'd been staring at the floor, to find that Severus had been watching you from where he stood, perched beside the window. His eyes were keen and knowing, as if he'd been carefully watching the turning cogs in your brain. "And killed Pettigrew. He's the one who did those terrible things. So… So what does _Remus_ have to do with anything?"

Severus was clearly unhappy with the conclusion you'd come to, and you flinched as his face twisted in rage. "Lupin is _hiding_ something," he hissed vehemently, pointing towards the closed doors to Remus' quarters again, before turning his finger to tap against his own chest. "I spent my entire student career being tormented by those four, but I know they got up to much more than just pushing me around." His hand balled into a fist then, and he seemed to force himself to return his hands back down to his sides. "Black obviously knows about the tunnel under the Whomping Willow, and I have no doubt in my mind that they discovered _more_ than just one secret passage into and out of this castle. We've already caved in two of them." You bit your bottom lip, nodding in understanding, because that… was perfectly true. You knew about the caved in tunnels, because Argus Filch had been all too happy to regale the story of their discovery and subsequent destruction, quite chuffed with himself for being the one to finally find them. He seemed to think that there had been students, who knew about the passages long before he had…

"Lupin hasn't offered a single alternative suggestion, and that's _bullocks_," Severus spat, his nose wrinkling with a snarl. "So either he _knows_ how Black is getting into the castle, and he isn't _telling_ us, or he's actively helping Black do it." His breathing was heavy now, and you weren't sure you'd ever seen him this agitated. Even when he'd faced off against Lockhart, he'd been cool, in control. But now he was just… _livid_. "And as much as I detest that little pest, Potter…" he murmured, dropping his gaze from yours. "I can't abide by that."

There was silence again as his words slowly sank in. So that's what he'd meant… when he'd said that Black had gotten in _with help_. And though everything Severus was telling you seemed… plausible, you were having a difficult time connecting the sweet, charming werewolf you'd gotten to know over the last two months, with the notion that he was actively aiding a mass murderer to enter the castle, in order to kill a little boy. That wasn't the Remus you knew… But… well. How much did you really know about him after all? You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth again, shaking your head slightly. It just didn't make _sense_.

"Then why…" you started, unsure where this question was even going at first, as you tried to process a lot of information very quickly. "If that's… if what you're saying is true-" Severus's face grew dark, and you lifted your hands swiftly, facing your palms toward him in surrender. "I'm not saying it isn't true, Severus! But if it is, then why doesn't Dumbledore-?"

You were cut off by a sharp, humorless laugh. "Believe me? Do something about it?" he filled in for you, and you wilted, nodding ruefully in confirmation. "His Gryffindor bias is showing now more than ever. When all was said and done after that night at the Shrieking Shack, _all three_ of us were given _detention_." The smile on his lips was anything but mirthful. It was indicative of malice, resentment and bitterness, all tied together in one smooth curve. "We _all_ received the same punishment; mine for being out of dorm after hours, and Potter and Black for my attempted murder. He seemed to think Lupin wasn't at fault, and I was given the extra order to _never_ to speak of what I had seen to anybody." The twisted smile fell, but the animosity remained, etched in the lines of his face. "I've obeyed that order, up until now."

Now, you just felt sick. There was a ball of lead in your stomach, and you twisted your fingers into the hem of your sweater as you considered the implications of this. Detention? They were only given _detention_? Even if Severus was exaggerating about them receiving the same punishment, even if Potter and Black had been suspended, or given detention for the rest of their _lives_… The fact remained that they hadn't been _expelled_. They hadn't received the punishment that was deserving of the crime. They'd hardly even been reprimanded, because _Severus_ had been the one ordered to never speak of what was surely one of the most traumatic events of his _life_. The way you saw it, Severus was a victim, who didn't receive any justice…

And that was a feeling you were intimately familiar with.

You released a ragged breath, placing your elbows on your knees, and dropping your face into your hands. Severus hadn't been the only victim though. He clearly thought that Remus must have been in on the 'joke' but… Whether it was your soft spot for Remus, or for werewolves in general, you weren't entirely convinced of that part of the story. If Remus was innocent, then he had been used as a weapon, by someone who supposed to be his friend. If this so called prank had been successful, then Severus would have surely been killed, at the very least bitten, and you had no doubt that in that scenario, Remus would have been… _terminated_. By the Ministry. It certainly lent credence to Sirius Black being a homicidal maniac from an early age… Did you really think that Remus would remain loyal to a friend who would have used him so grievously? Unless… he _had_ been in on the joke…

"Why not just botch a Wolfsbane potion, then?" you croaked, lifting your face from your hands. You stayed hunched over, still seated on the desk as you stared forlornly across the office towards Severus. He was still watching you closely from his place near the window, his hands finally relaxed from their previous fists. "Or miscast a protective spell? If you want him gone so badly, there are easier ways to sabotage him than…" you gestured vaguely towards the classroom. "Assigning essays." You felt defeated, suggesting this, but it didn't make sense to you. If Severus was so convinced of Remus' guilt, why was he taking this roundabout way to get him sacked?

Severus frowned, shifting slightly under your scrutiny as he crossed his arms, defensive once again. "Don't think I haven't thought about it," he muttered, and he at least had the decency to look a little ashamed. "But aside from straining my already precarious relationship with the Headmaster…" He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he released the heavy sigh through his nose. "If I did that, and Lupin hurt, or killed, or _bit_ someone, then _you_ would be the one held at fault."

The ensuing silence was suffocating, to the point where you were quite certain you had stopped breathing. Your vision narrowed, your stomach roiled, and you weren't sure how you kept yourself from vomiting under the weight of this truth. He was right. Of course he was right. He was _always_ right. It was your job to keep everybody safe from Remus Lupin… and if Severus betrayed that, then all of your work would be lost. And he… cared more about helping you retain your tenuous grasp on your reputation… than…

You were trembling all over as he finally approached you, your watery eyes trained down on his black shoes as you felt broad, warm hands grip your shoulders. "I _am_ proud of you, Gwen," he assured you quietly, and you pitched forward, pressing your forehead against his chest, clinging to his robes on either side of his waist.

"What you accomplished with the Wolfsbane potion is extraordinary, beyond measure. And I sincerely do hope that the public view of werewolves will one day shift because of the work you've done." Your trembling turned to shaking as you quietly wept against his frockcoat, and he went from holding your shoulders, to wrapping his arms around them.

"So I'll keep brewing the Wolfsbane to perfection. And I'll keep casting the barrier spells until you're able to do it on your own." A sob wracked your body, and you were immeasurably grateful for the silencing charms on the office doors. You felt a hand attempt to squeeze between you and your hold on him, and you leaned back slightly, just enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush a thumb against your tears. You glanced up at him, heedless of your puffy face and reddened eyes, and you found that he didn't seem to be as heated as he was before. In fact, he was arching a brow in a way that was all too familiar, and you braced yourself to hate whatever he was about to say. "But if an insufferable know-it-all happens to connect the dots in the meantime, I'm not going to stop her."

The snort of laughter was involuntary, having a keen idea of whom he spoke of, but you started sobbing again despite yourself. He let you tip your head against his chest again, and held you as you started to process this new type of heartache.

Later, when you would finally leave the office for your quarters, Severus offering to cancel your afternoon class for you, in order for you to get some sleep, you would agonize over the fact that Severus had finally let you in. Enough to tell you something about his past, to be vulnerable with you. You hadn't expected it to be pretty… but you hadn't expected it to be like _this_. And you hadn't anticipated to learn so much about Remus either… But _despite_ everything that you had learned, you had been left feeling more lost than ever. And you wondered if the knowledge was worth it.


End file.
